


Remembrance of Things Past

by Wynn



Series: Remembrance of Things Past [1]
Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Action, Adult Content, Angst, Drama, F/M, Gen, Mild Language, POV Multiple, Sexual Content, Slow Build, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-08
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-15 22:39:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 49
Words: 205,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynn/pseuds/Wynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Isn't it funny how the worlds turn and the fates fall?" After a series of conversations between Loki and Natasha that result in Loki permanently living on Earth, Loki crosses Victor von Doom, and Odin asks Natasha to track Loki down and help him. She must then delve into her past as well as Loki's in order to save them both.</p><p>In this section: <em>The scar cuts a thin pink line across Natasha’s throat, the only remnant of her fight against Doom. It was a stark contrast to the last time Clint had sat beside her bed, waiting for her to wake after they had rescued her from Latveria. Then she had been bloodied and beaten and tied to a dozen different machines to help her heal. Now she lies in a small golden bed in a small golden room in a huge golden palace on a broken golden world with nothing but the scar on her throat to show how she almost died. And then, of course, he had been alone in his vigil.</em></p><p>  <em>Now he isn’t.</em><br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Animal Inside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few months after the attacks on the Helicarrier and New York, Loki visits Natasha for a late night chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The series title is, of course, borrowed from Proust's novel. The chapter title borrowed from the novel of the same name by Laszlo Krasznahorkai.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of the Avengers. They are owned by Marvel, Joss Whedon, etc. and are used for non-profit, entertainment purposes only.

Natasha runs.

Hot, harsh breath follows.

Natasha runs, and the long, grey hall before her stretches out into the distance. The walls here are smooth, no doors through which to escape. Just the hall, the breath, and her heart pounding in her ears. 

Suddenly, the hall divides in two. The steps behind draw closer. Natasha chooses left, and this hall shrinks and narrows; she’s on her hands and knees, crawling. She’s sure she’s gone now where it cannot follow, but the animal never falters so she cannot either.

Another fork. She chooses right. Her lungs sear from the effort of flight. She feels a twinge in her right knee, and then the hall ends. Just before she hits the dead end, she glances behind her and sees the green monster grin in triumph.

*

She wakes from the dream as the Hulk lunges. Her neck tingles where his hands had closed in, and she rubs the area with a hand dotted with sweat. Natasha has had this dream before, a few times since the incident in the Carrier two months ago, but the last one had been a few weeks ago, and she thought she was finally past everything.

Apparently not.

Opening her eyes, Natasha contemplates whether sleep will return to her that night. Usually not, but the glimmer of sky between the curtains covering her window indicates that the night is still young, which means the upcoming day will be especially long, an undesirable result since the day involves a training session with Steve and Clint with new gear designed by Tony, Bruce, and the rest of Stark Industries.

Natasha sighs and reaches for the glass of water beside her bed. Before the shadow stops moving in the corner of her bedroom, her hand has grasped the small knife beneath her pillow and thrown it across the room. The air crackles as the knife passes through the chest of her target to land with a soft thunk in the wall beyond.

“Impressive,” Loki murmurs as he turns to peer at the knife in the wall. He skims a finger over the top of the blade, and the air sizzles again with the same static charge. Not the real Loki. A projection? But from where?

Loki glances at her over his shoulder. He arches a brow and says, “Bad dream?” For a moment, Natasha wonders if she’s still dreaming, one monster replacing the next, but she knows the feel of reality too well to consider the notion for long.

Loki turns towards her, and Natasha sits up and turns on the lamp beside her bed. He’s wearing the same suit and jacket he wore to steal the eye from the German scientist; his brow is still arched in inquiry about her dream. Ignoring the question, she says, “What do you want?”

He chuckles at that. “For a spy schooled in deception and subtlety, you can be surprisingly forthright sometimes.”

“When it suits my purposes,” Natasha says. “And it does now. So why are you here?”

Now he ignores the question. He stares at her with narrowed eyes and says, “Yes, direct confrontation must be the way. Your previous trick won’t work again. I know you are no blushing damsel. You cannot play coy to win your information now.”

Natasha nearly sighs, but restrains the impulse. Revealed emotion would allow for Loki to gain the advantage, and she cannot allow that. “Why are you here, Loki?”

He again ignores the question and continues his contemplation of her. His gaze flits from her to various articles in her bedroom, sparse save for the bed and bed table, a chaise lounge beneath the window, and a pile of black suitcases in the corner, upon which she had tossed her fighting uniform only hours before.

“Do you know,” he says, “that only two others have successfully deceived me as you did on the Helicarrier?”

Natasha shrugs. “I know what people see when they look at me for the first time,” she says. “Especially men.” She pauses now and meets his eyes. “Even men from different worlds.”

He smirks at that and takes a step closer. “They see a doll—a toy with which to be played.”

“Yes.”

“But you’re no doll. Instead—what is that delightful code name that you carry?” 

Natasha knows that he knows, so she stays silent. 

After a moment more, he says, “The Black Widow.” He relishes the phrase, emphasizing each syllable, searching through the vowels and consonants for something, she does not know what. He regards her again, and she starts to feel anger bubble at his scrutiny. “You weave your web of words over men, and, lost in their flush of power, their triumph over so small a thing, they fall into your trap and are ensnared.” 

His voice has the same eloquent thrum as on the Carrier, but the look he gives her now is devoid of the previous arrogance. Instead, curiosity takes precedence, underlined by confusion. For him, now, she is no doll; she is a specimen to examine, an oddity to understand. The bubbling anger starts to boil.

“Why are you here?” she asks again, and she knows he hears the edge in her voice, but she does not care. She hates labs and experiments, distant men who peer and poke and prod. She received enough of that in Russia, and she will not subject herself to it now.

The assessing look on his face flickers, and she sees some other emotion lurking beneath. Loki glances off to the side, and she knows he’s seeing far beyond the walls of her Manhattan bedroom. Does he see Asgard? Some other world? Thor had said that he was taking Loki home to stand trial for his crimes. Had he escaped? But, if that was the case, why would he come here, to her, even in a projected form, to converse about lies and deception?

He flickers again and turns away. Staring down at her suitcases, his hands clasped tightly at his sides, he says, “I regret the slur I used against you in our last conversation. You are no mewling quim. You are—” He stops, tries to start again. “Even Thor, for all his power, succumbs to the manipulation of sentiment, but you know. You know about love. And sentiment. It is for children.”

He stops again, turns, and looks at her, and the emotion in his eyes shocks her. He stares at her unguarded, and she sees, for a moment, the man beneath the monster, the one for whom Thor must care. 

“Why are you here?” she asks again, but the edge in her voice is gone, and now she is the curious one, assessing him for the clue to this unexpected course of action.

Loki holds her gaze and says, “My sentencing happens today. Odin will…render his judgment against me. I believe even your society grants last requests to the condemned.”

Natasha holds her breath, unsettled at the confession. 

“How did you do it?” he asks. “How did you stop being who you were and become who you are? Barton told me about your past. The red in your ledger. How did you…stop?” 

Natasha remembers the girl from long ago, the ballerina who killed, and the man who showed her another way. “Someone gave me a chance,” she says. “And I made a choice.” She pauses. The truth sticks in her throat, so accustomed to guile, to lies and to fictions. “We choose who we are,” she continues. “What we become. I chose this.”

Loki smiles, a smile of surprising sadness and regret. She begins to understand the anguish Thor experienced, the pain of the betrayal of this man. “Regrettably,” he says, “not all of us are so fortunate as you.” She sees a flash of blue, of red eyes and of ice. She hears the roar of the Hulk in her dreams. 

As if he knows, he says, “For some, no choice can soothe the animal inside.” 

She stays silent, unable to reply. All of her tricks and skills, all of her methods of persuasion and manipulation, fade before this, the last regret of a sure-to-be-dead god who wished to speak with her.

He looks off to the side again, and his mouth tightens into a thin line. “I must go,” he says. His eyes cut back to her, and she waits. He regards her a moment longer and then turns away. “Goodbye, Ms. Romanov,” he says. “Pleasant dreams.”

With that, he flickers and is gone. She blinks and swallows and looks around her room, strange to her now, the world tilted and changed in the last few minutes. The clock beside her reads 2:59 in the morning. Moonlight glints off the knife that she threw, casting the wall beyond in shades of ice and silver.

Natasha closes her eyes and sighs. She knows now that sleep will not come for her again tonight.

Sleep will not come.

*

Fin


	2. The Dog Days are Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few weeks after their conversation the night of Loki's sentencing, Natasha discovers him on Earth, and she contradicts Fury's orders to follow him and find out why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for deleting the first upload of "The Dog Days are Over." I just learned about the eBook system on AO3 and have reconfigured the series as one long story.

Of all the cities in the East, Natasha loves Tokyo the most. Her blood hums along with the neon lights, and the city offers a Technicolor respite from the often-dark world of S.H.I.E.L.D. and spying. She especially needs respite now from the view of the past few weeks, ever since Loki had vanished from her apartment, shifting her centered world with his questions and revelations. Since then, her nightmare of being chased by the Hulk had twisted into a psychotic brew of monsters and men, of green and blue and red, she in the cage and then in the center of the three-ring circus telling the brutes to dance.

The final straw had been Clint drawing Loki’s face on their paper practice targets and yelling, “CLINT SMASH!” when he sent an arrow through an eye. Which, given that it was Clint, happened every time.

She couldn’t begrudge him his need for release given his experience with Loki, but neither could she participate in the mockery, given hers.

So she ran. The mission allowing her to run was simple, just an excuse for a week-long vacation really: follow a few men, find a few guns, plant a few bugs, and then gain a few pounds eating too much sushi. Simple.

Until, that is, she sees Loki standing in the midst of the armed yakuza she’d been spying on from her perch in the warehouse ceiling, his hands in the air, cornered in a cage with no way out.

A tight grin passes over his face as he eyes the ring of guns surrounding him. “It seems we’ve reached an impasse in the negotiations,” he says, and she sees him ease his weight to his back leg. Whether it’s for fight or flight she doesn’t know, but before his choice can be made, a shout sounds from the walkway opposite her, and she knows that, in her distraction, she’s been spotted by the guard.

All eyes down below turn toward her, and she allows herself to be seen by them so that she can lock eyes with Loki.

Shock freezes him as he sees her, but only for a moment, and then, in the diversion, he spins around and sprints for the door.

Gunfire starts to ring out as she swings through the skylight. She runs to the edge of the roof and hears the roar of a motorcycle down below. Loki revs the engine, glances once behind him at the warehouse door, and then vanishes down the alley before she can follow.

Natasha shakes her head and turns away. Loki. On Earth. _Not_ on Asgard and decidedly not executed by Odin for his crimes. She feels a headache forming above her left eye.

So much for respite.

*

“Say that to me again,” Fury demands over the phone. On the screen on her tablet, she sees a blood vessel begin to pound on his forehead. “You found _who where_?”

“Loki. In Tokyo,” she says. She recounts the events of the previous hour, and she sees Fury close his eye and sigh. She understands the sentiment. Her own contemplations of the situation have offered her no clarity. She had expected Loki to die as he had expected to die, but now he lives. She hated him for what he did to Clint and to Phil, but she felt pity for him at his sorrow and regret, too. And, now, he’s here and he lives, and she needs to know the reason for both.

Fury opens his eye. He thinks for a moment, rubbing one hand against his chin, and then he says, “We’ll work on trying to contact Thor, see what he knows about this. Don’t know when he’ll come back though, and we can’t exactly pick up a phone and call him.” He sighs at that. “But we can’t let Loki wander around the world either given what he chose to do the last time he was on this planet, so find him, Natasha, watch him, but do not engage.”

Natasha begins to protest, but Fury cuts her off.

“I’m serious. We don’t need what happened to Clint happening to you, too. I know you beat him at his own game on the Carrier, but he was in a cage then. Now he’s not. So find. Follow. Watch. But do not engage.”

Fury holds her gaze, unwilling to bend, and after a moment, Natasha nods. “Understood. I’ll contact again when I find him.”

“Until then,” Fury says, and he ends the call.

Natasha turns off her tablet and settles back in her chair. Beyond the window of her hotel room, the lights of Tokyo flash and sizzle. Do not engage, he said. Watch and follow, he said, but do not engage. Sensible orders, she knows, but Loki has drained the sense from her life. He’s fogged the clarity she craves, and now she has to know.

Fury will have to understand.

*

She finds Loki in India two weeks later. Natasha tracks him to a nice apartment in the posh side of Mumbai. She tries not to remember the last time she was in India, persuading Bruce to join the team.

She lifts the camera and peers through the zoom lens into the apartment. Loki has left the curtains drawn, giving those, like her, in the building opposite a clear view into the entire apartment. He must know that she or S.H.I.E.L.D. or someone else that he’s angered along the way would be searching for him, but here he is, in clear view, all the lights blazing in the apartment, as if daring them to come.

Natasha frowns at that and focuses the camera on Loki. He lounges on a green couch, clad in a pair of simple black pants and a shirt. A book rests in his hands, and she tilts the camera down to look at the cover: _War and Peace_ by Leo Tolstoy.

So he knows that it’s she that searches for him. Why else would he read a Russian? But if he knows it’s her, why display in this way? The curtains, the lights, the book. He must want her to come. But why? After New York, after Clint and Phil, he must know how she and S.H.I.E.L.D. would respond to him: capture, or, in the event of necessity, kill. She knows that the former option wouldn’t bother him—he easily escaped their custody before on the Carrier. The latter, though… _She_ might not be able to kill him, not alone perhaps, but with Clint and Tony and Steve—with Bruce—they could.

She tries not to think about the Hulk or Thor’s reaction to the death of his brother.

Perhaps Loki thinks they’ll avoid the kill since he is Thor’s brother. Natasha can’t guess the amount of loyalty that Thor would have for Loki after Loki had tried to kill him twice; the bonds between a family are something with which she is unfamiliar. Even adopted family.

But, still, Loki must know that death is a possibility. Yet he sits in clear view; he still dares her to come.

Anger twists in her gut, writhes around the curiosity that’s been driving her since their conversation the night he was supposed to die.

Fine.

He wants her to come; she’ll come.

She places the camera back into her bag, reaches for the pair of guns at the bottom; she slides the guns into the holsters at the small of her back. Each of her boots contains a slim knife, and she sharpened the blades in her wrist gauntlets that morning. She slips her phone into her pocket, just in case, and briefly considers how best to gain entry to the apartment. Would he expect stealth now, a counterbalance to his blatant display? After all, that’s how she came to him in the Carrier, appearing silently, almost out of thin air.

No. 

No, she’ll use the front door.

After all, he is expecting her.

*

Natasha stands before the door to the apartment, 25-B staring down at her in gilt lettering. She readies herself and thinks of Fury’s orders, of Clint and Phil, of Loki’s eyes when he said that all were not as fortunate as she. She thinks of the secure weight of the guns on her back, and then she reaches for the doorknob. 

The door is unlocked, of course. Cracking it open, she hears only the gentle hum of air-conditioning beyond. She moves to the side, pushes the door open with one hand. The hall beyond is empty. Natasha places one hand on the butt of a gun and steps inside.

Thick carpet muffles her footsteps, but Natasha does not try to be quiet. She knows from her observation that the end of the short hall opens to the living room and that the couch upon which Loki resided faces the hall. Before the end of the hall, she takes her hand off the gun and inhales slowly. She knows Fury and Clint and Steve and even Tony would disapprove of her actions, but she does not care. She has to know.

She walks forward, stopping in the archway to the living room.

Loki still rests on the couch, _War and Peace_ still rests in his hands, but he is looking at her, his face impassive. He closes the novel and places it on the couch beside him. The silence endures for thirty seconds, marred by the air-conditioning and the now audible thrum of traffic from the road below. She assesses him as he assesses her.

And then Loki speaks. “I suppose you want to know why I’m here. That was your primary query the last time we spoke.”

Natasha nods.

“It’s understandable,” he says, “since I believe we both assumed that I would be dead soon after our last conversation.”

“Yes,” she says. “We did.”

He purses his lips for a moment and then a grim smile appears on his face. “Isn't it funny," he says, "the way the worlds turn and the fates fall? Take, for instance, our encounter in Tokyo. Of all the Avengers—” Here he pauses over the word, as if tasting the flavor of the term. His mouth twists. “Of all the Avengers to find me first,” he continues, “it’s you. Isn’t that funny? I didn’t have that last conversation with everybody, you know.”

“I doubted it.”

“And yet here you are.”

“And here you are.”

He grins again and rises off the couch. “And here I am,” he concedes. He spreads his arms out, taking in the apartment that surrounds them both. It is as sparse as hers. A gold mirror sits high on the wall behind the couch; a low coffee table stands between she and Loki. 

He points to the room behind her, which she knows to be the kitchen. “Would you like a drink?” he asks.

She stares at him for a moment and then says, “Sure.”

He starts forward, slowly, watching her reaction. She backs into the kitchen, keeping her hands at her sides, but placing the island counter between them. He stops by the refrigerator and peers at her again with a raised brow. “You know,” he says, “it will be difficult to have any kind of a conversation if you restrict yourself to short, declarative sentences.” He pauses, regarding her through narrowed eyes. “You know how much I admire your words.”

“Is that what you want?” she asks. “Another conversation? Because you could have just called me instead of having me track you around the world.”

“And deny you the opportunity to hunt?” he says. “That would have been rude of me.” The wicked grin appears again.

“A hunter?” she says. “I’m no hunter.”

He quirks a brow at that. “We both know that isn’t true. Why else would you have been sent after both me and the beast?”

Natasha stills at his claim, but stays silent. A second passes, and then Loki turns toward the refrigerator. She tenses as he reaches for the door handle, and he pauses, then opens the door all the way so that she can see inside. Only three bottles line the shelves: one of milk, one of wine, and one of sparkling water.

Now she raises an eyebrow and says, “Gods don’t eat?”

“We don’t cook,” he says and waves a hand in front of the three bottles. “Which do you prefer?”

“Water.”

He nods once and grabs the bottle. Shutting the refrigerator door, he pulls two glasses from the nearby cabinet and places all on the counter between them. As he twists the lid off the bottle, she says, “Why aren’t you dead?”

He smirks. “Because Odin loves sadism almost more than his missing eye.” He pours water into the two glasses and pushes one in her direction. Lifting his, he continues, “He rendered his judgment. And here it is.” He sweeps the glass around the kitchen. “Banishment. To Midgard.” He rolls his eyes and mutters, “He seems to love that one.”

Natasha frowns as she processes his words. Banishment to Earth. Why would Thor and Odin let him back here? Unless…

Loki smiles a rueful smile as he catches her expression. “Do you see the humor now?” he asks. “Odin has rendered me powerless and cast me back down to the world with its own merry band of stalwart heroes who want nothing more than to see me dead.” 

Natasha blinks. Well, that was unexpected. She knows that Odin did the same to Thor; she read Selvig’s report of Thor’s first appearance in New Mexico, of his powerlessness and then the renewal of powers. Does Odin expect the same from Loki, the same reformation, or has Loki been sent here to die as he indicates? 

She remembers again Thor’s anguish at Loki’s betrayal. You only feel pain like that when you care. 

“Or maybe he’s giving you a chance,” she says.

Loki stares at her, shock at her theory clear on his face, and then he laughs derisively. “A chance, Ms. Romanov? To what? Atone? Reform? Here on Midgard? After corrupting Barton and—”

“Do you really want to review what happened on the Carrier?” she asks, anger beginning to sharpen her voice.

“—after killing Agent Coulson,” he continues, staring straight at her, “after setting the beast free, what chance at atonement do I have? What chance do I have when, at the first opportunity, you armed yourself and strode straight through my door with the intent to kill me? As I said before, not all of us are as fortunate as you with your smitten Agent Barton and his chance.”

She ignores the dig about Clint. A powerless Loki was one she did not anticipate. His negotiation with the yakuza for weaponry makes sense now, but after being denied his artillery by her interruption, he still did not hide. He still let her come. 

She looks at him, sees the misery hiding behind the edge of his rage at Thor and Odin and the rest of the universe. “You let me come,” she says. “You knew I would follow you, but you sat here and you waited. You let me see you. You let me in here.” She pauses, and, once more, the emotion in his eyes shocks her. “You want to die,” she says at last.

“It’s inevitable. If it’s not you, Fury will send the beast after me. Either that, or Midgardian justice will triumph, and I’ll rot in a cell somewhere until I’m put down like a rabid dog.” He sets his glass down, untouched, on the counter and stares once more into the water. “Odin may allow sentiment to inform this choice—this chance, as you say—but others will not. Death is the only choice available to me. There is no way out.”

There is no way out. The hall narrows, and you reach the end and then the beast is upon you. Natasha feels a chill at the remembered dream. Perhaps the choices would have been different for Loki had the deal with the yakuza succeeded; perhaps, then, the inevitable death would be hers.

Natasha reaches behind her and pulls one of her guns from its holster. She looks down at it, feels the weight of it in her hand. Loki watches her, wary. “Clint and Phil gave me my chance,” she says quietly. “And you—” She shakes her head, forces down the rage. She needs calm and balance. “When you came that night to talk,” she continues, “I thought it was a dream for a while. The reality of it was too… unreal. It still is.” She pauses again, feels the weight of his gaze upon her. She looks up at him and says, “You called me a hunter before. Does this mean you’re an animal?”

She thinks she sees a flash of blue, of red eyes and of ice, but the glimpse is gone, replaced by his hollow gaze. “I don’t know what I am,” he says. “I never have.”

A beat passes. Natasha studies him as he studied her the night of their last conversation. Moments of honesty between two compulsive liars. She resists the urge to squirm. Instead, she swallows and looks away and says, “I didn’t know either. Not at first. But I found out.” 

She still hesitates. She finds the notion of killing him now when he is powerless to be distasteful. Fury would want her to bring him in for questioning, perhaps for imprisonment. But Thor and Odin let him go for a reason. 

Another few seconds pass, and then Natasha holsters her gun. Surprise flickers on Loki’s face. “You have your chance,” she says. “I’ll make sure the others don’t follow you so that you can make your choice.”

She turns and walks out of the kitchen before he can respond. She hears him follow her. At the end of the hall, she turns and sees him as unsettled as she feels.

“I’ll find you if you make me regret this,” she says. “And then I will kill you.”

He nods once, slowly, in response. As she opens the door to leave, he says quietly, “Goodbye, Ms. Romanov.”

She glances again behind her, but steps through the open door without response. She closes the door with a soft click and then releases the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Phil may have understood this decision; Clint will not. Fury… Natasha closes her eyes and sighs. Maybe he’s already talked with Thor and knows the situation. Or maybe he’s standing outside with a bazooka ready to bring this absurd circus to an end. Neither would surprise her, but little would after tonight and the past few weeks.

Natasha starts for the elevator and wonders what, exactly, she’s gotten herself into and just how far down the rabbit hole she’ll have to fall before life begins to make sense again.

*

_Coda_

Three days of travel, two days of debrief, two of psych eval to prove that she hadn’t been brainwashed or possessed by the former Asgardian god of mischief, and a thirty-five minute rant from Clint that covered all of the ways that her decision would blow up in their collective faces, and Natasha is home.

She grabs her mail from the concierge and heads to the elevator, feeling absurdly like Dorothy returning to Kansas after her trip to Oz.

“There’s no place like home,” she mutters as she presses the button for her floor. The doors slide shut, and she begins to sift through the month of mail that had accumulated in her absence.

She finds it between an advertisement for a local Thai restaurant and her electricity bill—an expensive cream envelope with her name and address written on the front in a ridiculously refined hand. The elevator doors open, and she peers out, half expecting to see Loki standing before her in the hall, but the hall is empty and all is silent. She makes her way to her door, unlocks it, and pulls her gun from her holster before heading inside. Even before she closes the door behind her, she knows all is clear and she doesn’t have to search. The feel of her apartment is the same, empty and secure.

She drops her gun, mail, and bag on the table beside the door and opens the cream envelope. A postcard falls to the floor along with a folded sheet of paper. She grabs the paper first, unfolds it, and finds a neat list of names and bank account numbers for the suppliers and clients of the yakuza that Fury had sent her to discover.

“No fucking way.”

Natasha blinks, unable to comprehend the list. This list is the key to S.H.I.E.L.D.’s case against that particular gunrunning ring in the East. And it’s just been sent to her on expensive stationary. By Loki.

Her eyes fall to the postcard on the ground. A picture of the skyline of Shanghai stares up at her. She reaches down, flips the postcard over. The same ridiculously elegant scrawl greets her here.

“In recompense for the chance—  
—Loki”

*

Fin


	3. Postcards from the Edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few months and a series of postcards from her last conversation with Loki in India, Natasha is visited by Odin, who requests for her to find Loki and help him after he crosses Victor von Doom.

First, there was Shanghai. Then Taipei, Hanoi, and Bangkok. 

Loki sent two postcards from Katmandu and then a series of increasingly contemplative ones from his journey across Russia. Each came with its own musing on whether one really escapes the influence of one’s motherland, no matter how far and long one may travel.

Natasha especially wanted to shred those, not wishing to reflect on Russia or her past, but Fury had already threatened to court-martial her for letting Loki go in the first place so there was no way he would allow her to destroy the only evidence they possessed about his activities on Earth. So Natasha had filed them with the rest, willing herself to look away from the pictures of the snowy vistas and onion-domed cathedrals.

The last one she had received was from Berlin, over a week ago. On the back, always in the same absurdly refined hand, was a note in favor of Nietzsche and the Übermensch, which caused Clint to rant for an hour about how this was proof of Loki’s evil intentions and how he wished that Fury would give him permission to shoot a few arrows into his evil ass. Fury simply gritted his teeth and pointed to the door, muttering the same lines about diplomatic immunity and negotiations with Asgard and how Clint needed to develop some more patience or Fury would kick some patience into his impatient, arrow-loving ass.

Natasha hated these moments, knowing that she was to blame for Clint’s anger and Fury’s extra stress as he tried to tightrope between the wishes of the Council, who called for either death or imprisonment for Loki, and Asgard’s request for clemency, for a stay of execution.

Natasha hated these moments, so she ran. Everyday in the mornings and sometimes in the evenings, Natasha ran the streets of New York. After a few weeks she knew the back-alleys and by-ways nearly as well as Steve. Sometimes he joined her, ever the peacemaker, trying to repair the strain in relations between her and Clint. 

The relations between Clint and Thor were even more tenuous as Thor had expressed gratitude for Natasha’s mercy, which prompted Clint to call him a fucking idiot for believing that maniacs could change. The ensuing fight had lasted fifteen minutes and required Natasha, Steve, Fury, and six other S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives to end.

From Tony, she received a snippy email saying that the next time Loki destroyed a major American city that she could pay the bill.

From Bruce, she received nothing, for which she was grateful.

Now, on a crisp October afternoon, she stops outside her building, winded from her run. She peers through the glass doors at the front desk, wondering if there will be another postcard waiting for her. She hopes not, but expects so. She never intended to become Loki’s personal parole officer. She only wanted to pass the buck, so to speak, to give him the same chance that she had received and then send him on his way, simply eyeing him, discretely, from a distance in case of a reversal of intentions.

She eyes the desk now and draws in another deep breath. Maybe she could move. She’s heard that Canada’s nice. Or Kentucky. There are horses in Kentucky, and she’s never ridden a horse before. She grimaces at the image and then heads inside. Loki would somehow know she had moved and would start sending her postcards to her new location. Tony would probably tell it to him out of spite.

Instead of a postcard, though, there’s a message from Fury telling her to get to S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters immediately. Immediately is both capitalized and underlined. Fury’s rage conveyed through punctuation and lettering. She glances at the concierge, who winces at her in sympathy, and she wonders what Loki has done now.

*

When Natasha enters the indicated conference room, the tension emanating from the assembled group of individuals makes her hesitate. On one side of the table sits Fury, flanked by Clint and Maria Hill. Steve sits awkwardly in the middle of the table, directly opposite Natasha. At the other end sits Thor and two men she’s never seen before. One is tall with dark skin and amber eyes that peer at Natasha as though he can see inside her, down to blood and bone. The other has white hair and a white beard that gleam under the fluorescent lights and one eye covered by a sleek gold patch.

Odin.

She stares at him until Fury points to the chair opposite Steve. “Sit, Agent Romanov.”

Natasha sits in the indicated chair, and she receives the same wince of sympathy from Steve as she had from her concierge.

Fury turns to Maria, who stands and opens the file folder before her. Then she says, “Ever since Agent Romanov alerted us to Loki’s return to this planet, we’ve been following his progress around the world. This hasn’t been exceedingly difficult, given his consistent mailings to Agent Romanov. One thing that has puzzled us these past few months, though, is how Loki has been funding his trek around the world.”

Maria pauses and flicks to the next page. She had also questioned Natasha’s sanity upon her return from Tokyo, albeit privately to Fury rather than loudly and in the middle of the mess hall like Clint.

“We now know how Loki has been traveling from place to place,” Maria continues. “Agent Barton has discovered that he’s been skimming money from the accounts of various businessmen and other organizations with ties to the criminal world.”

Clint snorts and leans back in his chair. “Apparently he thinks he’s fucking Robin Hood.”

“Thank you, Agent Barton,” Fury says, and his hands clench so tightly around his pen that Natasha can hear it crack from the pressure.

Maria continues, unfazed. “Why this has become an issue now is that Loki’s latest target is Victor von Doom.”

Natasha straightens in her chair and looks at Fury.

Steve frowns and says, “Who’s Victor von Doom?”

Natasha answers. “He’s the ruler of Latveria. It’s a small country in Eastern Europe. Doom is a scientist, a mystic—”

“He’s a goddamn supervillain,” Clint interjects, leaning over the table now to stare at Thor. “And now he’s about to be best buds with your brother, the last goddamn supervillain who tried to take over the world.”

“Or,” Thor says, straining to maintain calm, “he will persecute Loki for his crime and execute him.”

“In any case,” Steve says before Clint can retort, “this is bad, right?” He looks at Fury. “What do you recommend we do?”

The pen in Fury’s hands cracks further. “We do nothing, Captain Rogers. Agent Romanov will locate Loki’s whereabouts and convince him to come in so that he can return to Asgard.” The pen creaks again. “Where he should have stayed to begin with.”

A moment of silence occurs, and then Clint starts yelling at Fury and Thor, and Thor starts yelling at Fury and Clint, and Steve starts talking over all of them, trying to restore order. Maria sits down and pinches the bridge of her nose while Fury glares at Natasha. Natasha stays silent and finds her gaze drawn to the other two silent witnesses to this farce: Odin and the man with the amber eyes. She finds both of them looking at her. 

A beat passes and then Odin stands and says quietly, “I wish to speak to Ms. Romanov alone.”

A hush descends on the table, a testament to Odin’s power. He and Fury stare at each other for a moment, and then Fury nods, rises stiffly, and leaves the room. Maria quickly follows. Steve glances once from Natasha to Odin and then circles around the table, squeezing her shoulder before he leaves the room. Clint stares at the three Asgardians in disgust and then stomps from the room, leaving Natasha alone with Thor, Odin, and the man with the amber eyes.

Odin turns to Thor and says, “Please, son, could you also grant us a moment of privacy?”

Thor hesitates, looking from Natasha to his father, but then he, too, yields to the request. As the door shuts behind him, Natasha looks at the two men remaining. 

Odin smiles at her from his place at the head of the table. He indicates the man with the amber eyes and says, “This is Heimdall, Agent Romanov, the guardian of Asgard. He has consented to accompany me on this mission, being the most informed on the matter.”

Natasha nods at Heimdall, who returns the gesture.

Odin continues. “My original intention had been to speak privately with you about this. Heimdall had seen Loki’s error before Agent Barton discovered it for himself and—”

“Wait.” Natasha looks at Heimdall and frowns. “You _saw_ Loki’s mistake?”

Heimdall nods.

“How?”

“I am the guardian of Asgard,” he says simply. “I see all.”

At Natasha’s continued frown, Odin explains. “Heimdall can see and hear across the stars. He is our guard, observing threats to Asgard’s safety. Lately, however—”

“I watch Loki,” Heimdall says. “And you.”

Natasha narrows her eyes. “Excuse me?”

“Please, Ms. Romanov,” Odin says, striding around the table to stand before her. “Do not be angry. It was at my request. When my son declared his judgment wish to be a visit to you, I desired to know why. Loki is unlike Thor; he regards most Midgardians as inferior. Yet he sought you out and allowed you later to find him. He revealed the truth about his circumstance to you, and the truth and Loki have long been enemies. He has chosen you as worthy, and I wanted to know why. I apologize at the intrusion of your privacy.”

Natasha stays silent. She looks at Heimdall and then stands, crossing to the opposite end of the room. She should be beyond surprise now. She’s seen the Hulk and Thor with her own eyes; she knows of the Fantastic Four and Spiderman, of mutants and the X-Men. She knows about magic and immortality, yet the ability of this one man to see across all of space and watch her without her knowledge sends a chill down her spine.

She glances down at the cracked pen that Fury left behind. She understands a little better his newfound stress and frustration.

Turning back to Odin, she says, “So what did you discover? Why do you think he’s chosen me?”

Odin briefly considers her question; then he says, “You bested Loki at that which he prides himself above all: deception. As he revealed to you, only his mother and I accomplished the same feat. With this, you gained his curiosity and his respect. Now… now he sees affinities between you and he. Your past is also stained with blood. Your origin—”

“So what do you want me to do?” Natasha asks. “Manipulate him like I did in the Carrier?”

Odin smiles sadly. “No. Loki has endured enough deception. I ask you to help him. Thor and I cannot. He will not allow us, yet he is my son and I must help him find peace. If this Doom is all you say, I fear he may sway Loki from the path that he has now chosen, and I will lose my son forever. Or he may kill him, and the same fate will occur.”

Odin finishes his plea and waits for her reply. Natasha turns away. A dull ache has formed again over her left eye again. To be thrust back into direct contact with Loki, to fall once more down the rabbit hole, is unappealing, especially when Doom could—literally—be on the other side.

“There is good in him, Ms. Romanov,” Odin says. “He simply needs a guide to help him find his way. Guidance, I believe, we’ve all required at one point in our lives.”

A memory of an arrow being lowered, of Clint extending to her the hand that would lead her from Russia and her past to the life she leads now surfaces in her mind. Without him, she would be dead. Without Clint, Natasha would be nothing.

_Regrettably, not all of us are so fortunate as you._

_…you, with your smitten Agent Barton and his chance._

“All right,” Natasha says as she turns toward Odin again. “I’ll talk to Loki. I’ll try to help him. But if you really want this to work, you’re going to have to do something that I know absolutely nobody will like.”

Odin waits for her to finish, but Natasha thinks he already knows what she’s going to say and has considered the possibility.

“You’re going to have to give Loki back his powers.”

*

“You said _what_?” Fury growls at her ten minutes later. Natasha had left the conference room to give Odin time to reflect on her advice. As soon as she stepped from the room, Fury had demanded a debrief.

Natasha does not flinch beneath the glare. “Loki isn’t Thor. Taking away his power hasn’t made him embrace Odin and see the error of his ways. It’s just made him angrier at everything. Especially since he’s been subjected to the same fate as Thor. And this powerlessness denies him what Odin wants most of all— for Loki to choose. He can’t choose to atone and to return to Asgard if his choice is thrust upon him.”

Frustration and disbelief twist Fury’s face. “ _This_ is your plan? To give the man who destroyed a good chunk of New York not too long ago _back_ his ability to wreck such destruction again so that you can _talk_ him out of teaming up with Victor von Doom? _This_ is what you want?”

“No,” Natasha says through gritted teeth. “This is not what I want. I don’t want to have Loki sending me postcards and causing you and Clint to glare at me every time I enter a room. I don’t want to feel pity for the man who killed Phil. But I do.” Natasha stops and sinks down into the chair before Fury’s desk. The dull ache above her eye has expanded to span her entire forehead. All she wants is some quiet and some space to run. She wants to do her job and not open the door to Loki and her past.

She looks at Fury and sees exhaustion on his face as well. He leans back in his chair and says, “The Council wants you to go and find Loki and kill him before he can make a choice.”

Natasha holds her breath. “And you?”

“I don’t want to piss off the god-king of Asgard, but I also don’t want to give Loki the opportunity to return to form. Especially if Odin takes your advice.”

“So the wait-and-see approach,” Natasha says.

Fury nods. “For now. Loki is contacting you for a reason. And you seem to counter his ability to deceive better than most. So we’ll try Odin’s way for now.”

“Until Loki chooses,” she says.

Fury nods again. He hands her the file folder at the top of the thick stack on his desk. “Before you arrived, I asked Thor for an update on Loki. If he knew where he was. He didn’t, but Heimdall did.” Fury grimaces. “Apparently, he can see across all of space. That’ll make me sleep a lot better tonight.”

Natasha opens the file folder and sees a picture of a city in water, gleaming in the bright sunlight.

She is going to Venice.  
*


	4. So, Italy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The smitten Agent Barton, Loki had said. Natasha knows he told the truth. Clint had never spoken of his feelings to her before. She knows his issues with intimacy, with closeness, are nearly as legion as hers. There is a reason he observes life from a distance. Still, she knows. She just tries not to think about it.

When Natasha leaves Fury’s office, the hall beyond is empty save for Clint. He leans against the wall a little ways down, his arms crossed and one leg bent at the knee. A sheepish look covers his face.

“Sorry for being such a dick,” he says as he falls into step beside her. “I thought I had moved past everything, and then…”

“And then you realize you haven’t,” Natasha says, remembering her dreams about the Hulk.

Clint nods. He knows about her dreams just as she knows about his nightmares about his possession by Loki. The loss of control, being forced to turn against his friends and allies, Clint has sufficient reasoning to hate Loki and to doubt her course of action. But his anger at her specifically the past few weeks has affected Natasha more than she would like to admit. Of all the people in the world that she would identify as family, Clint is at the top of the list. Without Phil now, he really is the list.

_The smitten Agent Barton_ , Loki had said. Natasha knows he told the truth. Clint had never spoken of his feelings to her before. She knows his issues with intimacy, with closeness, are nearly as legion as hers. There is a reason he observes life from a distance. Still, she knows. She just tries not to think about it. Their lives as spies and now as Avengers are complicated enough without adding emotions to the mix.

“So,” Clint drawls as they turn the corner for the elevator. “Italy.”

“Yes,” she says. “Italy.”

Clint waits for her to elaborate, and, when she doesn’t, he sighs. “Nat…”

“I know what you want to say, Clint. In fact, you’ve said most of it already.”

“With good reason. He—” Clint holds out an arm, stops her from moving past him and his latest rant. The concern in his eyes is too much for her, and she looks away. “He’s not you, Nat. He murdered people.”

“I murdered people, too.”

Clint grits his teeth. “He tried to take over the entire planet.”

“I worked for people who gladly would have seized control of the world if they could.”

“Goddamn it, Natasha,” he says. “He murdered Phil.”

“I know,” she says, striving to maintain calm. “But you can’t make the job personal.”

He shakes his head and turns away from her. She watches him as he rubs one hand through his hair, as he stares at the wall. Then he turns back to her and says, “You already made it personal, Natasha, when you compared your life to his. You think you’re doing for him what I did for you, but it’s not the same.” He glares at her now, and the détente is over. “He’ll kill you if he gets his powers back. He won’t have to play at atoning in order to survive anymore. Don’t be a fool.”

She opens her mouth to retort, but then the elevator doors open and she sees Steve staring at them in concern. “Is everything all right?” he asks.

She feels Clint looking at her, but she ignores his gaze and heads for the elevator. “Everything’s fine,” she says to Steve, punching the button for the ground floor. As the doors slide shut, she sees Clint shake his head again and walk away.

The elevator begins to descend, and Natasha feels Steve shift awkwardly beside her. He coughs once and says, “So. Italy.”

Natasha sighs.

*

In her apartment, she relishes the peace and the quiet, knowing that she will experience neither in the near future. She stands at the foot of the bed, examining the neat stacks of clothes that span the length of the mattress. Her suitcases lay open beside her, empty, but she does not know what to pack. Her usual missions are simple: she needs only her black fighting uniform, her boots, and various weapons and gear. Personal vacations, when she has them, pose no problem for her either. Natasha loves clothes, though she rarely gets the opportunity to wear more than her uniform or simple jeans and a t-shirt. Trips allow her to indulge, so she usually throws whatever suits her fancy into her suitcases with abandon.

But this… this is a mission, but not one that calls for fighting or espionage or interrogation. She’s going to talk. However, she’s going to talk with Loki, one possibly in possession of his powers again, so she must be prepared.

She contemplates the two scarves in her hands, knowing how cool it will be at night in northern Italy in October. One is black silk and was a gift from Phil last Christmas; the other purple cashmere and the only possession of her mother’s that she has. Both seem too personal to bring on this mission, but, as Clint stated earlier over her denial, this mission is personal. Loki has made it so, and she has allowed him to do so. Perhaps, then, the scarves are perfect.

“Travelling?” he asks.

He appears as silently as he did the night he believed he would die. Odin, it seems, has rendered his judgment; he returned to Loki his powers, and Loki now has returned to her.

She does not turn around, but tosses the black scarf into the maybe pile. “Yes,” she says. “It seems you are, too.”

“Yes,” he says. “But you don’t seem surprised by this. I must admit, I was. I nearly incinerated a café in Italy in my astonishment.”

She draws a hand along the smooth fabric of the cashmere scarf; she wonders if the memories they evoke are real or her own desperate creation. 

“Why aren’t you surprised?” he asks. She places the purple scarf in the maybe pile as well and then turns to face Loki. Even in a projected form, she can tell that he’s changed. He wears a grey suit this time with a light blue shirt, and he carries a black makila, the walking stick grasped lightly in one hand; his skin is less pale than before, and his hair is shorter, softer than the slick helmet he wore to conquer the Earth. How will she convince him to abandon revenge, to resist the impulse to rage that rages within him?

She remembers Odin regretting the deceit that Loki has endured, so she says, “I’m not surprised because I asked Odin to return your powers to you.”

A second of silence passes, but the second lingers like light in space with the look that Loki gives her. Then the air around him crackles, green light flares, and he is there in the flesh, having teleported from Italy. She takes a step back, cursing the distance between her and her gun, out of reach on the table beside the head of her bed.

“How did you do this?” he asks. “Why? Is Odin— Is Odin here?” He is agitated and almost afraid; he glances around the room, searching for something, maybe Odin, maybe Thor. He looks at her again and then darts forward, and she jumps back onto the bed and lunges for the gun on the table. By the time she has swung back around, he is gone.

Natasha hears the air crack in the living room, and she slides off the bed, her gun extended before her. Crouched low, she eases down the hall. At the entrance to the living room, she pauses and hears Loki say, “I have no desire to harm you. And I have honored our agreement so far, so you have no reason to kill me.”

She hesitates, but then glances around the wall. Loki stands at the far end of the living room, his hands held loosely by his sides. When he sees her, he says, “I just want to know what has happened.”

Natasha slips into the living room, her gun still extended. “Thor and Odin have asked me to talk to you,” she says. “You’ve stolen from a man named Victor von Doom. He’s…” She hesitates about how to describe Doom. Clint’s term ‘supervillain’ pops into her brain, but she rejects the word and says instead, “He’s a genius megalomaniacal mystic who’s declared himself the king of his own country. He’s…” She hesitates again.

“Me?” Loki concludes.

She sighs and lowers the gun. “Or who you used to be. You’re supposed to be making a choice. You can’t do that if the choice has been made for you.”

Loki regards her, skepticism mixed with awe on his face. “So you petitioned the All-Father to bestow upon me my powers. And he assented to your request.”

“Yes.”

“You asked Odin to reverse his judgment,” he says slowly, “to change his mind, and he said yes.”

“Yes,” she says again.

Loki continues to stare, his mouth open in astonishment. Then he sinks down onto her couch and begins to laugh. “You are a creature to behold,” he says, prompting her to arch a brow. He glances in the direction of her bedroom. “So your travel preparations were for Italy, for you to find me?”

“Yes.”

“For you to talk to me, as you said?”

“Yes.”

“At the request of the mighty Thor and Odin?”

She feels irritation stir within her at the interrogation. “Yes,” she says again.

Continuing to laugh, he lays an arm along the back of her couch. His eyes sparkle with delight as he says, “Talk to me about what, may I ask?”

Natasha sighs now and resists the urge to roll her eyes. The God of Mischief has returned, for good or for ill, and, at least while he remains on Earth, he is her responsibility. 

“We would talk about you,” she says. Natasha takes a few steps into the living room, leans against the chair opposite Loki. “You said once that you didn’t know who you were. I’m willing to help you find out.”

Some of the glee vanishes from his face; some of the gravity returns. “And how exactly would you accomplish this?” he asks.

Natasha remembers the scarves in her room, Clint’s claim of this mission being personal. She holds in her uncertainty and says to him, “By talking about me.”

She waits for his response, but he stays silent and studies her instead, and this time she allows him to do so. She knows she is the key; his curiosity about her drew him across space, allowed her to find him in India, prompted all of the postcards, all of the musings about life, and now this. Odin and Heimdall must know that she is the key, otherwise they would not have observed her, conversed with her, requested this of her; Fury and Clint must know as well. To succeed, she must allow Loki to know her so that he can know himself.

The burden makes her squirm.

She waits while Loki watches her. After a moment, he stands. The black makila materializes in his hands. “All right,” he says. “I accept your terms.” The air crackles around her before she can speak, green light flashes, and then Natasha finds herself standing in the middle of St. Mark’s Square in Venice, her gun in her hand, moonlight shining down upon her and the wicked grin that Loki flashes her across the way.

*


	5. Venice By Moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I found Russia to be a fascinating country,” he says. “With your tsars and imperialism, your wars and communism. Take the name Romanov, for instance. As your patronymic, you should be Romanova, yet you refer to yourself by the masculine Romanov. May I ask why?”

Fog transforms the city of Venice into an impressionistic nightscape; nebulous orange lights gleam through the dark blue night. Natasha stares at the twin idols of the city high atop their concrete pillars, the winged lion of St. Mark and St. Theodore slaying the beast. The night is cool, nearing sixty degrees, and she longs for the piles of clothes back home, her jackets and scarves, her gear and weapons. All she has with her is her phone and a gun, the jeans, t-shirt, and boots that she’d been wearing when Loki had taken them away.

She sighs and pulls out her phone, typing a quick message to Fury requesting that funds and gear be sent to the American Consulate, then she turns to find Loki standing beneath an archway to the Doge’s Palace, regarding her through narrowed eyes.

“Dinner?” she says as she starts towards him.

He nods and falls into step beside her.

*

They find a quiet restaurant a few winding avenues from St. Mark’s Square. She orders _polenta e schie_ , her Italian rusty at first, and Loki orders _fegato ała venesiana_ and a bottle of Soave wine, also in Italian. His is not rusty. She raises a brow and he says, “Human languages. Ridiculously easy to learn.”

“How many have you learned so far?” she asks, handing her menu to the waiter.

“Six,” he says. “English, Mandarin, Japanese, Russian, German, and Italian.” He also passes his menu to the waiter. “You?”

“Seven. Russian, English, French, German, Mandarin, Latin, and Italian.”

He grins and leans back in his chair. Dim candles light the restaurant, but Natasha has sat facing the door, her gun on the floor beside her chair.

“It’s interesting,” he says after a moment. “You list Russian first and not English.”

“I learned Russian first,” she says simply, but the answer is far from simple.

His gaze conveys this same message. “I found Russia to be a fascinating country,” he says. “With your tsars and imperialism, your wars and communism. Take the name Romanov, for instance. As your patronymic, you should be Romanova, yet you refer to yourself by the masculine Romanov. May I ask why?”

Discomfort settles low in her belly. Natasha ignores the feeling as she tries to ignore most feelings and says, “I never knew my father. There wasn’t much tradition to uphold.”

“And your mother?”

Her hands clench the napkin in her lap. “She died in a fire when I was young.”

The waiter comes with the wine then. Natasha breathes in once, and then again, as the waiter opens the bottle and pours wine into two glasses. Loki never breaks his gaze. As the waiter leaves, she says, “What about you? Do you know your birth parents?”

He glares at her question, but she keeps her face impassive and waits. For this endeavor to succeed, he must delve into the remembrance of things past as well.

More silence, and then Loki waves a hand over the table. A small figure emerges next to the candlelight: his skin is blue and ice, adorned with scars; his eyes are red. Natasha knows that he would be tall—he would be a giant—if he were there.

“My father,” he says. “Laufey. From Jotunheim.”

“And your mother?” she asks.

Loki shakes his head. He stares down at the image of Laufey, his face inscrutable. Natasha looks as well. She compares Laufey to her memory of Odin and tries to understand the unpredictable mixture of giant and god within Loki. Glancing back at him, she asks, “When did you know?”

“I always knew,” he says quietly. “But the truth about my parentage was confirmed by both fathers a year ago.”

Around the time that Thor first arrived on Earth. Was this why Loki had sent the Destroyer to kill him, as vengeance for this deception? She wants to know, but she will not ask. Not now. A conversation about Thor can wait for another day, if Loki assents to another day and another conversation. It’s difficult for her to resist the urge to run right now; she has no idea how long his patience or curiosity might endure.

Instead, she says, “Why—” She pauses and Loki meets her gaze. She licks her lips and starts again. “Why do you…” She looks at the figure of Laufey and then back at Loki.

He raises a brow. “Why are my eyes blue and not red, and why is my skin pale and not blue?”

She nods.

He smirks and reaches for his wine. “I never knew my father, Ms. Romanov. There wasn’t much tradition to uphold.”

The waiter arrives with their food then, and she and Loki eat the rest of the meal in silence.

*

They return to St. Mark’s Square after the meal, the Square nearly empty now given the late hour. She feels her phone vibrate in her pocket, and she removes it to find three new messages waiting for her: one from Maria stating that the requested money and gear were at the Consulate and that a hotel room had been reserved for her as well; one from Steve informing her that he, Clint, and Thor were flying to Latveria the next day to investigate Doom’s activities and to contact them if she needed help; and one from Clint.

His is the shortest.

_Still alive?_

Natasha returns the phone to her pocket and continues into the middle of the Square. She knows that Loki is watching her. She wonders if Heimdall is as well. She chafes under all of the attention, all of the prying, the questions, the doubts and tension and pity and rage that she’s experienced the past few months, ever since Loki came to her that first night, like a figure in a dream.

She stops now and looks at him. He stands a few feet away, his face in shadow, his hands perched on the end of his makila.

“Agent Barton thinks you’re going to kill me now that you have your powers back,” she says. 

“What do you believe?” he asks, his face revealing nothing.

She looks beyond him to the basilica and then to the stars above. His rage had fueled his journey across the entirety of that space to this world to conquer; his sorrow had led him across those same stars to her to question. She does not know which will triumph in the end, whether he will choose the monster or the man inside.

“There would be no tactical advantage to killing me now,” she says. “You know why I’m here, and you know what will happen if you do kill me. You know they’ll come after you.” She peers at him and raises a brow. “And this time you won’t have an army to help you.”

“True,” he says. He moves toward her now. Natasha stands her ground, testing her theory, not enough distance between them for her to react if he attacked. “But there is also another reason,” he says softly. “You spared my life. I am in your debt. That is not something that I carry lightly.” He leans down toward her. He is so close that she can see the grey ringing the blue of his irises. “You have nothing to fear from me, Ms. Romanov,” he says, “no matter what questions you may ask or what truths we discover along the way.”

She hears Clint’s last warning, _Don’t be a fool_ , and she hears Odin’s last plea, _There is good in him_ , and she sees only the same unguarded look as before. Holding his gaze, she nods, and then, after a beat, he returns the gesture and retreats. His grey suit shines silver in the moonlight as he turns to walk away. 

Hesitating, she watches him, but then she says, “Loki.”

He stops and looks back at her over his shoulder.

“You can call me Natasha.”

He pauses and then the moonlight catches his grin. “Until tomorrow, Natasha,” he says, and he raises a hand in farewell before strolling from the square.

*


	6. A Shadow and a Splendor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In one of the rooms, she forgets which they are so numerous, Natasha finds Loki regarding the carved and painted ceiling. The reflected light shines golden on the room and on him. She wonders how he ever successfully lied or deceived, his eyes convey so much. His gaze now is elegiac, a smooth sky covering a seething sea of rage and regret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from 'The Scarlet Letter' by Nathaniel Hawthorne.

The sun shines on Venice the next morning. Natasha stands in a corner of St. Mark’s Square and waits for Loki. The previous night, after his farewell, she had made her way to the American Consulate; neither the gear nor the clothes she had found waiting for her were hers, understandable given the short time between her request and their arrival, but the guns were the same model as her own and the clothes were her size and style so she didn’t mind. There was also a cashmere scarf similar to her mother’s in the mix, and she knows Clint must have added this, his version of an apology.

Natasha wears the scarf now with her boots and jeans, her guns and jacket. She cares for Clint, as much as she can; he is her friend, her brother, her partner, and her savior. The prospect of him seeking a relationship with her terrifies her though; he is too important to risk on something so tenuous as romantic love.

Loki enters the Square and sees her when she sees him. He wears another suit, navy this time with a grey shirt and a long patterned scarf around his neck; he again grasps his makila in his hands. As he ambles toward her, she moves to meet him. In the middle, he tips his head down toward her in greeting and says, “Pleasant dreams, I hope?”

She flashes a tight grin. “They were fine,” she lies. “You?”

He smirks and lies as well. “The most pleasant sort,” he says and then he points with the makila toward the Doge’s Palace. “Given both of our royal lineages,” he says, “I thought the Palace would serve as an appropriate background for our continued explorations of self.”

“It was never proven that I was descended from the royal family,” she says. 

He raises a brow. “If there is something that I know, Natasha, it is royalty, being the son of kings. You are royalty.” He holds her gaze for a moment and then starts toward the entrance to the Palace. 

Drawing in a deep breath, Natasha follows.

*

The opulence of the Doge’s Palace surprises her. Gilt carvings and paintings cover every surface of the vast rooms; the wealth and power in the grandeur of the architecture, in the strength of the gleaming wood and the immensity of the size, nearly overwhelm her.

In one of the rooms, she forgets which they are so numerous, Natasha finds Loki regarding the carved and painted ceiling. The reflected light shines golden on the room and on him. She wonders how he ever successfully lied or deceived, his eyes convey so much. His gaze now is elegiac, a smooth sky covering a seething sea of rage and regret.

“Is this like Asgard?” she asks.

He is silent and then his eyes cut toward her and away. “It is but a shadow,” he says and he turns to leave the room.

*

Further on in the maze, the splendor of the Palace gives way to the armory and to room after room of weapons. Glass cases house innumerable swords and knives, followed by spears and staves. She sees shields and armor amongst bows and arrows that she knows Clint would covet if he were here, and then guns. In geometric displays, ancient pistols line the walls, enclosed by rows of rifles and gleaming bayonets. In one corner, she finds a precursor to a machine gun, eight rifle barrels arranged in a circle around a wooden shaft that narrows to a complicated firing mechanism.

In the reflection in the glass, she sees Loki approach, and she says, “They had rooms like this. At the Academy. That’s where I grew up after my mother died. They… acquired me from the orphanage when I was four.” She looks again at the pistols on display. “They first taught me how to shoot when I was six.” 

She remembers the first time, the gun almost too heavy to lift. The recoil had knocked her off her feet, and she missed the paper target. The Madam in charge of the young girls had picked her back up, set the gun back in her hands, and instructed her to try again. She stood beside Natasha and waited, and Natasha remembers fear choking her at the look on the Madam’s face.

She didn’t miss the second time.

She meets his eyes reflected in the glass. “I was twelve the first time I killed a man,” she says. She remembers his face, a young boy, not much older than she. He appears in her dreams nearly as often as the Hulk. She hesitates and then says, “It wasn’t self-defense.”

“All actions are self-defense,” he counters. “In their own way.”

“No,” she says, and she feels the shadow of her past descend upon her. “Some of them… Some of them were games.” 

Bile rises in her throat at the memories. In the past, Clint had said that the fault is not hers, that those at the Red Room had brainwashed her from her early youth and that they are responsible for the actions of her past. But she knows the truth, and when she looks at Loki in the glass, she sees that he does as well, his own past stained with blood.

*

The interrogation rooms and prison cells follow the armory. Natasha finds no trace of the earlier magnificence of the Palace; she only sees cold concrete walls and steel bars. A chill passes over her here in the dank stone dungeons.

“Were you ever incarcerated?” he asks. He stares into one of the cells, makila gripped tightly in his hands.

She feels another shiver pass over her, but not from the cold. “Not traditionally,” she says. 

He turns to her and waits. 

Natasha moves away, deeper into the cell. She never wanted to talk about this, to think about this again. Does Odin know the cost of his request? Does he care? She looks at Loki. His eyes show only curiosity; she refuses to acknowledge any concern.

Looking away, she says, “About six months after Agent Barton helped me, S.H.I.E.L.D. sent me on my first mission with him. To Estonia. They thought… they thought that I could help since it was so close to Russia. But two days into the mission, I was taken by agents from the Red Room. Retribution for my defection. They had me a week before Clint helped me escape.”

She still has scars from that time, smooth lines on the soles of her feet, a scattering of circles on her back.

“What about you?” she asks. “What is prison like on Asgard?”

He shrugs and regards the cell before them. “Confining,” he says. She remembers the shackles binding his hands and the steel guard encasing his mouth and chin, all that he wore for his return to Asgard.

“However,” he continues, “it is preferable to the Void.”

“The Void?”

“The place where I fell.” His eyes go distant. She sees the passage and weight of time in his eyes. “I could no longer remain on Asgard. Not after—” He stops, remembering. “Not after what happened,” he continues. “But I could find no asylum in Jotunheim either. There was no where, so I fell and the Void embraced me.” He pauses and then says, “I believe Midgardian mythology refers to the region as Hell.”

Hell is a Void; Hell is a Red Room. Hell is a place with no exit.

“It was there I encountered Thanos,” he says.

“Thanos?”

“Warlord of the Chitauri. He offered me release from my desolation, for a price of course.”

She regards him for a moment and then says, “The Tesseract.”

Loki nods. He surveys the cell once more, his eyes dark. She knows of desperate choices and the consequences that one must endure as a result. “What will happen now?” she asks. “Now that Thanos knows you’ve failed?”

A shadow crosses Loki’s face. “Something far worse than Hell,” he murmurs, sending another shiver down her spine. 

*

A few halls later, they are on the Bridge of Sighs, the final passage for the Venetian condemned. Through gaps in the limestone walls, Natasha sees sunlight gleaming on the water in the canal. She breathes in the fresh air and places a hand on the cool stone, trying to steady herself, to gather the parts of her life that she scattered throughout the Palace, that she laid bare for Loki to see. 

She remembers his words on the Carrier, before she learned the truth of his plan. _Your ledger is dripping, it’s gushing red, and you think saving a man no more virtuous than yourself will change anything?_

He referred to Clint then, but she thinks of Loki now. She glances over at him, but he faces away from her, staring out the other side of the Bridge, lost in his own thoughts of his life, his past. 

So it is she who first sees the man at the end of the Bridge. He wears a fitted black suit; scars mar his handsome, arrogant face.

Natasha eases a hand behind her back to rest on the butt of one gun.

The man is Victor von Doom.

*


	7. The Widening Gyre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To the outside observer, this would seem to be a meeting between two distant associates, Doom and Loki, cool but polite. To Natasha, she feels ensnared in concrete with two ticking time bombs, the only option available to her to wait for the first explosion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing the story back in June/July and have been posting it at LJ and FF.net. I was fortunate to receive an invite to AO3 a few days ago, so now I'm posting it here. I apologize for the fast and furious uploading of chapters; I hope to have it caught up by next week. 
> 
> Title from "The Second Coming" by Yeats.

If Clint were there, or maybe Tony, he would crack a joke about only needing tumbleweed for this to be a standoff straight out of the old, Wild West. Doom stands at one end of the Bridge of Sighs, Natasha and Loki the other. Beyond the bridge, Natasha hears the lap of water in the canal and the sounds of tourists enjoying the warm afternoon sun in St. Mark’s Square. 

Her hand still rests on her gun. 

Loki looks first at her and then at Doom. His eyes narrow and he shifts his grip on his makila.

The seconds drag along, and then Doom speaks.

“Natalia Romanova,” he says, contemplating her with hooded eyes. “Lately of S.H.I.E.L.D. I have desired to meet you for quite a while, ever since you encountered some of my Japanese associates a few months ago.”

He lets the admission hang in the air between them. Natasha wills herself not to look at Loki. The yakuza that she had been investigating, in the midst of which she found Loki after his return to Earth, led back to Doom, the man behind the bulletproof curtain.

Doom now turns to Loki. “And Natalia’s gentleman companion,” he says. “You have me at a disadvantage. I would guess that you know my name, given your present company, but I have been unable to discover yours.”

Natasha chances a glance at Loki, who raises a brow at Doom. “I am Loki,” he says.

Doom repeats the name, once, softly to himself. He sounds as if he has discovered the missing piece to his puzzle and finds the discovery intriguing. “Well, Loki,” he says, “I am Victor von Doom, king of Latveria, and I would very much like to know how you stole from me.”

Silence, again, follows this admission. To the outside observer, this would seem to be a meeting between two distant associates, cool but polite. To Natasha, she feels ensnared in concrete with two ticking time bombs, the only option available to her to wait for the first explosion.

The wicked grin flashes across Loki’s face. “Yes,” he says to Doom. “I suppose you would.”

More silence as Doom studies Loki now, who returns the stare. Natasha edges away from the wall and balances her weight on both feet. Time slides along, the seconds waiting as well as the world, as well as Natasha, for a break in the tension, and then Doom smiles. Natasha sees the politician in the smile; she sees the king, the shark who smells blood. 

“Where are my manners?” Doom says. He reaches a hand into the pocket of his jacket and removes a white card, embossed with black lettering, about the length of Natasha’s hand. Doom places the card on the ground before him. “An invitation,” he says. “To a soirée I’m holding tonight for the Italian ambassador to Latveria. I would love for both of you to attend. After all, we have much to discuss about recent… activities.”

He looks once more from Loki to Natasha and then gives both a stiff bow of his head. After another moment, he turns and strides from the Bridge, disappearing into the building beyond. 

Only when tourists enter the Bridge behind her does Natasha release her hold on her gun.

She walks forward and picks up the card left by Doom. Expensive white card stock and finely inked black letters convey the invitation to which Doom alluded, a black-tie affair tonight on the Grand Canal. Natasha examines the back of the card, but finds nothing further. She assumes the invitation derives from Doom wanting more time to investigate Loki, now that he has a name with which to search, as well as the protection of patrons in the face of an unknown adversary. 

Natasha purses her lips. The protection, and the investigation, could work both ways.

She looks up as Loki moves toward her. She hands him the card, and he performs the same exam. Natasha sees the same probabilities, the same calculation of risk and intent, occur within him as well. 

When he finishes, he returns the card to her. “So,” he says. “A party?” 

“A party,” she concurs, and they turn and walk from the Bridge.

*

They return to her hotel, Loki claiming no need for any preparation, that he could change his attire at will to suit any circumstance. Natasha accepts the claim, unwilling to examine his words for any underlying meaning.

Now he sits on the couch, perusing the gear spread along the coffee table with the tip of his makila, and she sits on the bed, her phone in her hands, dreading the call that she knows she must make.

“Delaying the call won’t make Agent Barton any happier about the plan,” Loki says as he examines a pair of magnesium strips intended for a quick explosive. 

She glares at him, but refrains from responding. He’s right, she knows he’s right, but that doesn’t make the call any easier. Licking her lips, she clicks Clint’s name, lifts the phone to her ear, and waits. He answers on the second ring. She hears rain in the background and Steve asking if it’s her on the phone. Clint says yes, and then Natasha begins to explain, denying him the opportunity to say more, her tone as bland as though she were giving a debrief to Fury or Maria. Clint stays silent as she describes Doom’s appearance on the Bridge and his invitation to the party that night, as she explains her and Loki’s intent to attend.

She finishes, and she hears Clint breathing over the phone, she feels Loki watching her from the far side of the room. In the background, Thor demands information about his brother. 

Natasha waits.

Another minute passes and then Clint says, “Nat, you’re not really going to do this, are you?” 

“Yes,” she says. “I am. We talked about it—”

“We talked about it,” he repeats, his voice incredulous. “ _We_ talked about it. You and _Loki_ talked about it—”

“Yes,” Natasha says, striving for calm. “We talked, and—”

“Natasha, you do realize this is the same fucking guy who vowed to have me hurt you in as many horrible ways as we can imagine before—”

“Yes, I’m aware,” she snaps. 

“—before he had me kill you,” Clint finishes, undaunted. “I just wanted to make sure that you remembered before you—”

“Clint, can you lay off? Please? I know how you feel about this—”

“No, you don’t,” he says. “Not really. You’ve never had this guy inside your head, Tasha, making you do things that you’d rather die than do. And I know you feel pity for him, but he doesn’t care about you. He doesn’t care about anybody. And I— I just—” He pauses and she hears him curse. “Nat, I…”

It’s as close as he’s ever come to telling her, and she cannot breathe. Her heart pounds in her chest, and her palms start to sweat, and she needs him to stop, she needs to say something before he changes things, before she loses him, but before she can say anything and before he can continue, she hears Thor again in the background, and Clint turns his attention from her to respond.

She exhales slowly and relaxes her grip on the phone. She can feel Loki watching her, but she does not look at him. She needs calm, she needs balance, and Loki provides neither. 

Another exchange happens between Clint and Thor and then she hears Thor demand, “Pass me the device for communication.” 

“No,” Clint snaps.

A brief scuffle occurs, and then Thor’s voice booms into her ear. “Agent Romanov, I wish to speak with my brother. Is he present in your location?”

“Yes.” She presses her lips together and tries to smooth the emotion from her face. She must be calm. She must be calm. After another moment, she turns. She forces herself to meet Loki’s gaze. She sees curiosity again on his face, but also something more, something that she does not wish to define. She looks away and says to Thor, “He’s here.” 

“Please allow me to speak with him,” Thor says.

Without looking at Loki, Natasha holds out the phone and waits. After a moment, Loki rises from the couch and makes his way toward her. He stops beside her, and the ends of his scarf brush against her arm. She looks at him now, and she sees more than she wants to see, she feels more than she thought she would feel. He lifts the phone from her hand, his thumb brushing against her wrist, and there is just enough time for Thor to say his brother’s name before Loki hangs up on him.

Natasha sighs as he returns the phone to her. “He wants to help you,” she says.

Loki stares down at her. “He’s a fool,” he mutters.

“He’s your family,” Natasha snaps. “And you should be thankful for it. Not all of us are so fortunate as you in that respect.”

He glares at her, but before he can retort, her phone rings again and she turns away to answer. 

“Yes?” she says.

“Natasha, it’s Steve. Is everything all right?”

“Everything’s…” Natasha pauses and considers his question, she considers everything, the past few minutes, the last few days, the previous months since Loki had appeared to her the night of his sentencing. In that time, she’s intrigued him and bargained with Odin, she’s teleported across the world and angered Doom, and now she has again upset the only man that she would ever consider family.

“Everything’s…” Natasha says again, and then she begins to laugh. She bites her bottom lip, but the laughter comes from her now, unbidden. _Isn’t it funny_ , Loki had said, so many months ago, _the way the worlds turn and the fates fall?_

She laughs until tears form in her eyes, until Steve expresses concern and even Loki throws her a cautious glance. The world was so funny, so very singular and bizarre. Her life, the absurd circus, the widening gyre, with gods and beasts and spies and murderers.

“Everything’s… everything, Steve,” she says, regaining her composure. “But it’s probably best if you don’t give the phone to Thor again. Or to Clint.”

“Gotcha,” he says. “So you’re going in tonight?”

Natasha will be forever grateful to him for returning to business. “Yes,” she says. Loki starts to pace the room, and she sits on the couch, beginning to sort through her gear. “We still have the advantage in that Doom knows little about Loki. We can use this opportunity to learn as much about him as he can about us.”

“That may be true,” Steve admits, “but we won’t be able to get to Italy until after the party is over. You’ll be on your own in there. Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I doubt he’ll try anything in front of a crowd of European dignitaries. And besides,” she says, glancing at Loki, “I won’t be alone.”

Loki stills by the window, and she knows he is listening.

“About that,” Steve says. “I know Thor and Odin think you’re safe with Loki, but it wasn’t too long ago that he wanted to kill all of us— you included. Are you sure that you can trust him? What if he leaves you there?”

Loki tilts his head far enough to peer at her from the corners of his eyes. She meets his stare. 

_You spared my life. I am in your debt._

“I don’t think that will happen,” she says to Steve. 

Loki looks away. Returning her attention to Steve, Natasha hears him say, “All right. All right. Just watch your back, okay? And report in as soon as you can.”

Natasha assents and then ends the call. A hush falls upon the room. Loki begins once more to pace. She wonders if she’s ever been as aware of the presence or movements of a man as she is with him, forever watching, forever assessing. 

He turns to her now, and she sees the same curiosity as before, the look tinged with something more. She remembers the way his thumb had glided against her wrist as he retrieved her phone. Before he can speak, she stands and grabs the wallet with the funds available for this mission. Starting for the door, she says, “I need a dress. And some shoes.” 

Natasha stops before the door and glances back over her shoulder. His gaze is inscrutable. A moment passes and then Natasha opens the door. “Meet me back here at seven,” she says, and then she is gone.

*


	8. Waltzing with Doom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doom continues, fury darkening his eyes, “Do not fool yourself into believing that your status as an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. will protect you. As a spy, you do not exist, and something that does not exist will not be missed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The waltz referred to in this chapter is the second waltz by Dmitri Shostakovich.

At seven, he arrives, and she is waiting for him by the door.

He wears a tuxedo, a black tie and vest over a crisp white shirt. He carries, again, the makila in his hands, wears, again, the same long patterned scarf around his neck. 

She wears black stilettos with steel heels and a dress the color of cabernet, silk chiffon, gathered by a thin black belt at her waist with a jeweled clasp. A small beaded bag dangles from one wrist, and she holds the invitation between her fingertips.

She steps into the hall and closes the door behind her. He looks at her, but does not say anything. Then he offers to her an arm.

After a moment, she accepts, resting one hand lightly on his elbow.

*

They arrive at the soirée by gondola. Standing on the dock, he allows the makila to vanish and then extends a hand down to her. His palm is cool in hers as he helps her to stand. Moonlight gleams off the diamonds in her ears and the water in the canal, and music drifts from the palazzo to the air outside, a minuet. 

She looks at him, but does not say anything. Again, he offers her an arm, his eyes bright in the moonlight, and she accepts, walking with him into the building.

*

Crystal chandeliers extend from the gilt and frescoed ceiling rising thirty feet above the ballroom. Warm light shines upon the honey-colored floor. Natasha and Loki stop inside the salon and survey their surroundings. The orchestra sits at the far end of the ballroom. In the middle of the floor, patrons dance to the minuet while others mill along the edges, glasses of champagne in their hands. A few men in suits stand in the corners, security for the evening’s dignitaries. Still others move deeper into the building through arched halls, but Natasha does not see Doom. 

He will come, she knows. Eventually. Once he sees them.

The minuet ends and a waltz begins, and at the sounds of the first strings, Natasha feels the pull to dance. She has not done so since her defection. The Academy had considered dancing to be another tool for her to use, along with art and music, literature and languages. Only once had she visited the ballet since leaving Russia, to watch a production in New York of _Romeo and Juliet_ by Prokofiev. By the “Dance of the Knights” she had left and never returned. 

“Do you dance?” Loki asks now.

She watches the graceful arcs of the passing couples. “I did,” she says. “Before.”

“And now?”

She looks at him. “You dance?” she asks, raising a brow.

“It’s a requirement for all Asgardian nobility,” he says, assessing the waltzing couples. She sees the same look in his eyes as before, in the golden room at the Doge’s Palace. The same elegy for loss. “This dance—”

“A waltz.”

He inclines his head. “It resembles one of ours.” He watches the dancers and then considers the rest of the room. Bending his head toward hers, he says, “It may make us more conspicuous. Allow for a beginning to this evening’s proceedings.”

She hesitates, but whether from the dance itself or from dancing with Loki she does not know. He waits, and she hears the swell of the music, the waltz by Shostakovich, and she feels the same elegy for loss.

Grasping his hand, she leads him onto the floor. 

He draws her close and places one hand on the small of her back, his arm curved around her waist. She rests her arm on top of his, her hand high on his shoulder. His chin brushes against her hair, and she sees his heart beat in the curve of his throat. Then they begin to dance, and the steps, the rhythm, she remembers all as though she had just danced the day before. She remembers the feel of a partner in her arms. 

“Have you ever danced with him?” he asks as they turn about the room.

She knows he refers to Clint.

“No,” she says.

The music swells. Under the light from the chandeliers, she feels his gaze. Meeting his eyes, she again sees more than she wants to see, she feels more than she thought she would feel. 

He takes in the diamonds in her ears, the loop of her dress over her shoulder.

“You look—” he says.

She shakes her head. “Don’t.”

He holds her stare and then dips his head in assent. His hand glides along hers; his arm tightens around her waist. He bends his head, rests his mouth against her ear, and then he says, his voice soft, “Someday, Natasha, you will trust me.”

Natasha closes her eyes.

_There is good in him._

_Don’t be a fool._

When the waltz ends, she breaks the hold and walks away.

*

On the balcony overlooking the Grand Canal, she breathes in the crisp night air. Natasha still feels the touch of Loki’s hand upon hers, his lips against her ear as he murmured his promise of trust. She looks up at the stars spanning the sky above Venice. Had this been what Odin intended? What he desired from her, from this, his request? For Loki to feel and to feel for her?

And for her to feel… what? She does not know.

She hears the scrape of a shoe on the balcony behind her. Tensing, she turns, but instead of Loki, Natasha finds Victor von Doom regarding her from the archway. His scars stand stark against his skin in the pale evening light. He wears a large signet ring on his left hand and a pin bearing the flag of Latveria on his lapel.

Stepping onto the balcony, he stops a few feet away from her and says, “You dance beautifully, Natalia. A skill learned at the Red Room, I believe?”

“Among others,” she says.

Doom places his hands on the rail and gazes out at the Canal. “I’ve met a few people over the years who worked for the Academy. They have been most sympathetic to my cause.” He glances at her now. “And they have been most informative about you.”

Natasha raises a brow. 

“You make quite an impression,” Doom continues. “But your companion— Loki.” He takes a step closer to her. “He has been more difficult to ascertain.”

She smoothes a lock of hair behind her ear and waits, silent.

“There are some rumors,” Doom says, taking another step forward, “of his involvement in the spectacle in New York a while ago. And then he appears in Tokyo and attempts to purchase from my associates shortly before you arrive to spy on them.” He lays a hand on the rail beside hers and leans in. “The arrests resulting from your investigation cost me dearly in time and profit,” he says softly.

Natasha shifts back. His hand closes on her wrist, and he looms, blocking the moonlight. “All this I could abide,” he says, “but then your companion steals half a million dollars from my personal accounts, and now S.H.I.E.L.D. agents have infiltrated Latveria to investigate me.” 

Doom tightens his hold on her wrist, and she feels his ring begin to pierce her skin. “Who is he?” he asks. “Who is Loki? He is not S.H.I.E.L.D. This I know.”

Natasha stays silent; she eases her free hand to her belt.

“Is he your lover?” he asks. “He looks upon you as one.” Squeezing harder, Doom digs his ring further into her wrist. She slips the small blade from the jeweled clasp of her belt. “It would be most unfortunate for him to lose such an alluring possession,” he continues, fury darkening his eyes. “Do not fool yourself into believing that your status as an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. will protect you. As a spy, you do not exist, and something that does not exist will not be missed.”

Natasha presses the tip of the blade into his side and pushes one heel down onto his foot. “I don’t need S.H.I.E.L.D. to protect me,” she says. “And I’ve encountered much worse than you before.”

Doom glances down at the blade, and the smile of the shark appears again on his face. “Perhaps not quite like me,” he says as he releases her. She holds the blade steady in her hand, and he steps back, smoothing a hand over his jacket. Dipping his head toward her in a nod of mock civility, he says, “Give my regards to the good Captain.” Then he strolls back into the palazzo.

*

She finds Loki in the ballroom, standing before a fresco of Antony and Cleopatra.

“We have to go,” she says, already reaching into her bag for her phone.

He frowns as he takes in the cuts on her wrist. “Why?” he asks. “What’s happened?”

“Doom knows the others were in Latveria,” she says, dialing Clint’s phone. She exits the ballroom and proceeds down the hall to the dock for the Grand Canal. The gondolas were the only way out of the palazzo, either onto the Canal or to the smaller Cannaregio behind the building. 

The phone rings as Natasha steps outside. She signals for a gondolier and waits, panic beginning to rise within her as the ringing persists.

“Natasha?” Loki asks.

“There’s no answer,” she says. A gondolier arrives, and Natasha climbs aboard, followed by Loki. She hangs up the phone as they start to drift away and dials Fury. 

He answers on the first ring.

“What’s happened?” she says.

“We lost contact with Rogers, Thor, and Barton a half hour ago,” he says. She hears the hum of the Helicarrier in the background, Maria shouting orders to the nearby crew. “They were flying to meet you in Venice, and then the plane vanished from radar.”

Natasha closes her eyes. “Doom knows they were in Latveria,” she says. She summarizes her conversation with Doom, refraining, though, from mentioning his query about her relationship with Loki. At the memory, she opens her eyes and glances at Loki; he again eyes the bruises on her wrist, his face impenetrable.

“Where were they when you lost contact?” she asks Fury.

“Just crossing into the Adriatic Sea. We’ve been working on getting satellite imagery, but so far it’s been… fuzzy.” He curses and yells something to Maria. “You need to get out of Venice,” he says when he returns his attention to her. “Get out of Italy. Doom’s less likely to follow you to France or Switzerland.” 

“Okay. Contact me when you know something.”

“Will do,” Fury says and he ends the call.

Natasha returns the phone to her bag. She breathes in the salty air of the canal and works to stifle the panic within her. She cannot consider the possibility of death for Clint, not again. He will be fine. They will be fine. They will all be fine.

“Where is Thor?” Loki asks.

She meets his gaze, the expression in his eyes still inscrutable. “They don’t know,” she says. “Not yet. But we should leave Venice. Go to France or… or—” Natasha stops and looks around. They had turned from the Grand Canal and were travelling down one of the small winding byways. The lights from the Canal had faded and darkness lay ahead.

“Don’t move.”

The voice comes from behind her. Natasha stills. She sees Loki raise a brow at the gondolier. Craning her head, she sees the gondolier holding a gun, a silencer attached to the barrel.

“Don’t move,” he repeats, lowering the gun until it points at Natasha.

She narrows her eyes.

The gondolier looks back at Loki, and Natasha darts forward, grabbing him by the belt. She yanks him towards her and knocks him off balance. The gondola rocks hard, the stern scraping against the wall of the nearby building. Natasha stands and shoves the hand with the gun away from her. The gondolier strikes out at her with his other hand, and she grabs her belt, whips the end around his wrist, and heaves him to the floor. Natasha twists his arm and jerks it up toward her, and the gondolier cries out in pain. He tries to squirm away, but she steps on his face, presses the heel of her shoe into his cheek, and he stills. 

“Drop the gun,” she says. “Or I break your arm.”

The gondolier hesitates. She applies more pressure to his arm and then she hears the gun drop onto the floor of the gondola. Loki leans forward, lifts the gun by the end of the barrel, and places it in the seat beside him. “That was a thing of beauty,” he says as she kneels down and reaches for the gondolier’s other arm.

Natasha gives him a look, but he grins, unrepentant. She rolls her eyes and binds the gondolier’s wrists together with her belt. Lifting him by the back of the shirt, she tosses him in the other end of the gondola and uses the oar to wedge him against the stern. Turning back to Loki, she holds out a hand and he gives her the gun. She checks the safety and the clip and then points the gun at the gondolier.

“Who sent you?” she asks.

“You know who,” the gondolier says. “You were just speaking of him on your phone.”

“What’s his plan?”

The gondolier stays silent. He glares at Natasha, and she shifts the gun, shoots out a chunk of the stern beside his head. 

“What is his plan?” she asks again. The silence continues. Natasha shifts the gun again, shoots between his legs.

“The plan is to kill you,” he says, gritting his teeth at nearness of her last bullet. “And him, too,” he says, pointing to Loki with his chin. “There are others in the city waiting for you if you were to escape here. That’s all that I know.”

Natasha assesses the gondolier, but she sees no deceit in his face, just rage and shame. “Thank you,” she says, striding forward to slam his head against the stern. He falls unconscious as she says, “For your cooperation.”

*

They leave the gondolier in the gondola and then leave the gondola wedged between the walls of the canal by the footpath they ascend. They traverse a small alley and exit into a courtyard by a worn church and a tall stone tower.

In the middle of the courtyard stands Doom. He wears silver armor covered by a green tunic and cloak. A mask conceals his face. Four humanoid robots surround him, ready for battle.

“When I said to give my regards to the Captain,” he says, energy beginning to crackle around his hands, “I, of course, meant when you see him in the afterlife.”

The robots spread out beside him. Natasha raises the gun. The makila reappears in Loki’s hands and he passes it to her before striding into the courtyard.

“You wanted to know who I am,” he says to Doom as his tuxedo vanishes, replaced by green and gold armor, a horned helmet, and a golden staff in his hands.

“I am Loki,” he says. “Of Asgard. And you’ve just made me angry.”

*


	9. Fight and Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the eye of a storm, there is calm. There is Natasha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some violence in this chapter, nothing beyond canon-levels of fighting.

In the eye of a storm, there is calm. There is Natasha.

She shoots the first robot and drops it to the ground incapacitated before either Doom or Loki have moved. She yanks the end off the makila, exposes the metal spike beneath as the three other robots converge on her, as Doom and Loki begin to fight.

Grasping the head of the makila in one hand, Natasha aims the gun at the second robot. She fires and hits the robot’s right knee, and it falls to the ground. Then she swings the makila at the third robot. It jumps back and she spins, shoving the metal spike into the chest of the fourth robot, staggering it.

Light and energy flash in the corners of her eyes, but Natasha wills herself not to look.

Turning again, she shoots the second robot as it tries to rise, catching it in the shoulder this time and knocking it flat once more.

The third robot lunges at her now and strikes the gun from her hand. She rears back, kicks at its knee with the heel of her shoe, but it evades again and the fourth robot charges.

Natasha grabs the makila protruding from its chest and uses it as leverage to jump up and over the robot. Landing behind it, she drags the robot to the ground and stomps its face with the heel of her shoe. She grinds until she hears the sizzle of cracked electronics and the robot becomes still.

An explosion occurs in the distance; stone and shards of wood crumble from the far tower. Natasha looks; in the distraction, the third robot returns and shoves her forward. She uses the momentum to spin around the makila, fly back toward the robot, and kick it in the chest. It falls flat as Natasha yanks the makila from the inert fourth robot. Then she turns and sees Loki use his magic to send debris from the tower at Doom.

The second robot lumbers toward Natasha, and she swings the makila, hitting it in the head. It staggers and she thrusts the spike into its face. The robot topples, twitching sparks, and she looks again, sees Doom conjure a blast of energy. 

The third robot tackles her from behind, and they collapse onto the ground. The impact knocks the air from her lungs. The gravel of the courtyard tears her dress and scrapes her hands. The robot eases up to strike again, and Natasha squirms away. She lunges for the dropped gun.

Another explosion, and then the robot’s hands close on her neck.

Her right hand brushes the barrel of the gun. The robot squeezes, and Natasha digs in, drags her and the robot forward as her lungs start to burn for air. Her hand reaches the butt of the gun as black dots appear before her vision; then, grasping the gun, she wraps her arm around her head and fires.

The bullet knocks the robot back, causes the grip on her neck to loosen. Air rushes back into her lungs as Natasha fires again. The silencer muffles most of the sound, but the ignited gunpowder still singes the side of her face. She scrambles out from beneath the robot, rotates, and fires once more. The bullet pierces the robot’s head, and then it is still. 

Throat burning, Natasha climbs to her feet. She sees Doom and Loki at the opposite end of the courtyard. Light and energy again flash between them too fast for her to follow. Half of Doom’s tunic has been incinerated, and blood trickles from Loki’s nose.

Doom fires blasts of energy from his hands. They hit Loki in the chest and he falls to the ground. Natasha opens her bag. She finds the strips for the magnesium bomb at the bottom. 

Looking up, she sees Doom stride toward Loki. Gun in one hand, strips in the other, Natasha runs.

Doom lifts his hands to strike again. Natasha reaches him and drops into a slide; she slaps the magnesium strips against the back of his right leg as she skids past. Then she spins and fires the gun at his face and neck. The bullets crunch against his armor, but do not stop Doom.

The magnesium strips catch fire as Natasha crashes into Loki. The blaze ignites Doom’s cape and tunic. She fires at him; she empties the clip into him. But he does not stop. Engulfed by flames, Doom extends his hands. Purple energy blooms between them, and then Loki wraps an arm around her, the air crackles, green light flashes, and they are in snow, the dark Alps rising above them.

*

They lay in the snow, enveloped by the dome of stars and the imposing peaks of the mountains. 

Loki rests his head against the curve of her neck; his arm still encircles her. Natasha closes her eyes. Her throat aches and the cuts on her body throb; the singes to her face burn, and she winces at the sharp pain in her side from a likely cracked rib. She feels blood trickle from her fingertips onto her beaded bag, her nails broken and the skin scraped in her desperate grab for the gun. 

“Where are we?” she asks, her voice raw. 

“Somewhere near Lucerne,” he says. His breath catches in his throat as he speaks. She feels him move, hears the soft squish of skin and flesh, and then he tosses a shard of wood into the snow before her, the bottom three inches covered with blood.

She sits and turns to face him. His skin is pale, marred by a smear of blood along his cheek and chin. A gash on the thigh of his right leg leaks blood onto the snow, and burns from the last blows from Doom blight the armor across his chest.

“Are you—?” she asks.

“Yes,” he says. He takes in her cuts and burns, the tears to her dress and nails. “And you?”

She nods. 

She will be fine. He will be fine. They will all be fine.

*

They stumble into the small town, only two thin strips of buildings standing alongside the road and a church on the hill overlooking all. Stopping by the first building, Natasha assesses the scene. A few houses line the street; the rest of the buildings are commercial, a pharmacy and a pub, a general store and an inn. 

The neon cross of the pharmacy dazzles her eyes and gleams off Loki’s armor. His helmet has vanished, but the staff remains, clutched in his left hand. Natasha starts forward, shivering in the cool air.

Before the doors to the pharmacy, she stops and looks at him. He leans against the wall, and she asks, “Can you—?” She stops, unsure of the phrase. “Can you make us look—?”

“Like we haven’t just been in a fight?” he asks. 

She nods.

He nods in return and closes his eyes. The air around them shimmers, and, reflected in the glass of the doors, she sees them as they were, before the flight, before the fight, he in his tuxedo and she in her cabernet dress. 

They enter the store. Natasha squints in the bright fluorescent light. Grabbing a basket, she heads down the nearest aisle, Loki following close behind. She tosses bandages, aspirin, cotton balls, bottled water, soap, and disinfectant into the basket as well as a bottle of bourbon. She finds a small display of clothing in the back, mostly tourist shirts and kitschy hats. Natasha frowns and selects the least ugly shirt and pair of pants that she can find, and then they walk to the front. She places the basket onto the counter by the register, and the old clerk starts ringing up the items without comment. Natasha has no idea what he sees instead of the medical supplies.

She pays with one of the debit cards in the wallet, Fury only giving her Euros but no Swiss-Francs. Loki takes the bag and they leave the store, making their way to the inn. Inside, she smiles at the concierge and requests a room; the concierge looks at her and then Loki and leers. 

Her hand itches for a gun.

The concierge must see some of that emotion on her face since the leer vanishes and he accepts the debit card in silence. Taking the key and her card from his outstretched hand, Natasha turns for the stairs. She hears Loki chuckle softly behind her. “Not a word,” she says as they start up for the third floor.

*

The room is small but clean with a full bed, a desk, chair, and lamp as well as a small bureau for clothes. A tiny window provides a glimpse of the church and the Alps beyond. To the left of the bed, Natasha sees the bathroom. She reaches for the bag of supplies, but Loki ignores her, roots around, and unearths the bottle of bourbon. Then he hands her the bag.

Entering the bathroom, Natasha closes the door and drops the supplies by her feet. She sinks down onto the floor, gritting her teeth at the shock of pain from her cracked rib, and then she opens her bag for her phone, checking for messages.

She finds none.

He will be fine, she thinks. They will be fine. They will all be fine.

Breathing slowly, Natasha uses her dress to wipe the blood from her hands and then she texts Fury: _Encountered Doom. Survived. Now in Switzerland. Any updates?_

Within five minutes, Fury texts her back: _Not yet. Zeroing on last location. Will know more in a few hours._

Natasha closes her eyes. She and Clint had faced danger before, had survived precarious situations that puzzled the rest of their S.H.I.E.L.D. associates. But this resembled few of their previous missions, and Doom resembled few of their previous foes.

Only Loki, really, was similar.

_Who is he?_ Doom had asked. _Is he your lover? He looks upon you as one._

Natasha remembers the way Loki had looked at her under the golden light of the palazzo. 

_You look—_

No.

She remembers his hand upon her back as they had danced.

_You look—_

No.

Natasha opens her eyes and stares into the narrow shower stall.

_Isn’t it funny?_

_Isn’t it funny the way the worlds turn and the fates fall?_

*

She leaves the bathroom thirty minutes later, showered, her wounds clean and mostly bandaged. She wears the ugly t-shirt and pants and carries her bag and the remains of her dress in her hands.

She sees him in the light from the bathroom, the rest of the room dark. He sits in the chair, his armor gone, clad again in a simple shirt and a pair of black pants like he wore in India. He stares out the window, his eyes like the night beyond the glass, the bottle of bourbon open before him.

“Where is Thor?” he asks without looking at her.

She drops the dress onto the bureau. “They don’t know,” she says. “Not yet.”

He is silent. She sees the same rage and regret, the same elegy in his eyes as before. He had called Thor a fool, had scorned Odin’s chance at reformation as proof of his disregard.

_He is my son, and I must help him find peace._

Loki looks at her now, and she meets his gaze.

_Your ledger is dripping, it’s gushing red, and you think saving a man no more virtuous than yourself will change anything?_

He rises, and she stills. He looks at her, and she cannot breathe. 

_Someday, Natasha—_

He closes the distance between them.

_Someday, Natasha—_

He stops before her, and she closes her eyes. He places the bottle of bourbon in her hand, and she grabs it as he passes by, heading to the bathroom and shutting the door behind him.

_Someday, Natasha, you will trust me._

*

He leaves the bathroom twenty minutes later, showered. She does not know if he still has wounds to clean or if they have already healed. She lies on the bed in the dark, facing the wall. Her phone rests on the floor beside her, next to the open bottle of bourbon.

A moment passes, and she waits. Then the bed shifts as he eases down beside her. The silence endures, and she waits. He moves once and then stills, and she feels him behind her, she hears him breathe. Natasha closes her eyes.

_You look—_

_Don’t._

She remembers the feel of his hand gliding against hers as they danced.

_Isn’t it funny?_

She remembers the feel of his lips against her neck as they lay in the snow.

_Isn’t it funny, the way the worlds turn and the fates fall?_

Natasha feels him behind her and she tries to sleep.

*


	10. The Dark Center of the Universe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the snow, she stalks the boy. He is fifteen. He lies by a fire, and Natasha dances around the flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from the Modest Mouse song of the same name.

Natasha sits in the red room. Today is the day for dance. She points her toes and watches her feet flex in her black ballet shoes. The Madam had given her a new pair when she turned twelve. 

The door opens and the Madam walks in. Natasha stands and smiles.

“There will be no dance today,” the Madam says.

Natasha lowers her head, but she does not cry. She cannot cry in the red room.

“There is a mission instead,” the Madam says.

Natasha sees the knife in her hands and smiles. 

“This boy has stolen from the Academy, and to steal from the Academy is to steal from Russia.”

Natasha nods. She loves the Academy; she loves the knife in her hands.

In the snow, she stalks the boy. He is fifteen. He lies by a fire, and Natasha dances around the flames.

“A fine day to hunt,” the man says. Gold horns curve from his head. He smiles at her and she smiles in return.

“I’m a hunter,” she says. Drops of blood from her knife spot the bright white snow.

His eyes are red like the blood.

“Then hunt,” he says.

The boy lies by the fire, his body arched like a bow.

The beast with the golden horns runs, and Natasha gives chase.

Today is the day for dance.

*

Natasha wakes, breathless. Her hand clutches the blanket before her. She stares at the bandages covering her hand and inhales slowly. The ragged edge of her thumbnail has caught on a loop of cream cotton, and she pulls free, remembering. 

The boy had had brown eyes, not blue, but he had stolen from the Academy. And Natasha had killed him.

The sky beyond the window is still dark. Natasha glances down at her phone, but finds no new messages. She breathes in again and then notices that the bottle of bourbon that she had placed beside her phone is gone.

Turning, she does not see Loki. The other half of the bed is empty, and he is not in the chair by the desk. She sits and peers into the dark bathroom, but she sees nothing save the scattering of supplies on the floor. 

Natasha stands and moves to the window. She finds him after a moment, walking up the street towards the church, the bottle of bourbon in his hands. He is barefoot, clad only in his shirt and pants despite the cold.

Frowning, she grabs the blanket from the bed and her shoes, places her phone back into her bag, and then she follows him into the night.

*

Natasha climbs the stone steps to the church. Her breath fogs in the air, and she pulls the blanket tighter around her. At the top of the hill, the ground levels into a cemetery that leads to the church beyond. The gravestones here are old and the shade of bone in the starlight. 

She continues to the church. Two small alcoves branch off from the closed front doors. Natasha sees the flicker of a candle in the alcove to her left, hears the clink of glass on stone. Moving forward, she sees a statue of a saint beside a worn wooden table upon which lie a display of candles. Before the saint and the table sits Loki on a stone bench.

He shifts as she approaches, and she sits beside him. He offers her the bottle, and she eases a hand from beneath the blanket to accept.

“Aren’t you cold?” she asks before taking a drink.

“No,” he says. He stares at the candle flame. 

Natasha takes a drink of the bourbon, tasting heat and smoke; warmth slides down her throat as she swallows. She glances at Loki and then at the candle before returning the bottle to him. 

He shifts again and twists the bottle in his hands while Natasha waits. The cold starts to chill her feet and her nose. After another moment, he says, “There are no seasons in Asgard. The snow always stays in the mountain. The golden light always falls upon the palace. Night and day occur, but they mark no true passage of time. A leaf falls and millennia may pass. Asgard evades even death. Odin endures, refreshed by the Odinsleep, and nothing… nothing changes.”

He stops and drinks from the bottle. Natasha watches him and waits. She hears the wind whisper between the gravestones. The saint prostrates herself before the candles.

“In a world such as this,” he says, “a world without change, how can I?”

Natasha looks back at the candle and draws in a breath. She starts to speak, stops, and then says, “You’re not on Asgard.” 

He looks at her now. “But even here,” he says, “the past endures. The actions of your past still haunt you despite the choices you have made since.”

She remembers her dream and the blood bright on the snow. 

“Have you changed, truly, from who you were?” he asks. “Or have you merely changed your circumstance, the city in which you dwell, the language that you speak, the men for whom you kill?”

“Those things don’t matter?” she asks.

“Do they? In Asgard and the Void, I hated Odin for his duplicity. I fought Thor before I fell, and I fought him after. The circumstance changed nothing.”

“But you’re worried about Thor now.”

He looks away. “Don’t presume to know what I feel.”

She laughs now, indignant, and he glares at her. “Don’t presume?” she says. “I don’t have to presume. I know. You’ve been telling me about yourself for months. And I’ve seen you when you talk about Thor and Asgard. You’re not that good at deception.”

He arches a brow. “No?”

Natasha shrugs. “Or you choose not to be with me.”

He continues to glare, but she does not relent. She reaches for the bottle instead and takes another swallow of the bourbon. When she finishes, she holds out the bottle for him, but instead of taking it, he says, his eyes hard, “So tell me, Natasha, if you know so much about me, what do I feel?”

She does not hesitate. “You demean sentiment, but you are sentiment. You feel, and you hate it. So you run. You ran from Asgard. You’ve run all the way around the world trying to escape what you feel.”

He smirks now. “And you haven’t? The stoic Agent Romanov.” He shakes his head and laughs. “The moment that any sentiment is expressed that you can’t control, you run. You run in your dreams. You run from Barton.”

“Don’t talk about Clint.”

“Even now, you run. You evade. And you condemn me for the same action.” He shakes his head again and stands. “You speak of change, of making a choice, but you resist and you fear what may pass if you relent. If you feel.”

She repeats his gesture of the raised brow. “And you don’t?” His hands clench at his sides, but she presses on. “You’re afraid. You’re afraid to change. You’re afraid of Thor and Odin and the fact that you’ve done so much and they’re still trying to help you.”

He moves past her now into the cemetery. She drops the bottle and follows, relentless. “But most of all you’re afraid of yourself,” she says.

He stops and she sees his shoulders tense. 

“The very first thing you asked me was how to stop being who you were,” she says. “You called yourself an animal.” She pauses, and he waits. “You hate yourself,” she says quietly. “You can’t even look at yourself in your true form.”

Loki looks at her now, and his eyes gleam red in the moonlight. “But you can?” he asks.

“Yes.”

The grin that crosses his face is no more than a glimpse of teeth bared. “Of course you can,” he says. “Natasha, the huntress. You want to see the monster, hunter? You want to see the animal inside?”

She shrugs off the blanket, drops her bag down beside her. She steps toward him and waits.

He stares her down, but she does not relent. After a moment, Loki turns away and says, “So be it.”

The air around them crackles and hums, the starlight shimmers above her, and then Switzerland disappears, replaced by a land of giants and frost. A broken bridge of rainbow light extends between them. On the bridge, Natasha sees Loki stab Thor, Loki kill Phil, Loki disintegrate the man she knows to be Laufey. She sees the Hulk chase her through the Carrier, and she sees Loki smile. She sees the Void beyond and the man she assumes to be Thanos placing a scepter into his hands. She sees Loki holding a blue box, the blue snaking around his arms, staining his skin, burning his eyes red as he learns the truth.

“Do you see?” he asks. “Do you see what I am?”

She sees Thor fall from the Carrier. She sees the Destroyer approach. She sees Loki tower over Odin as he collapses onto the ground.

“I am death,” he says. He turns, and his skin is blue and his eyes are red and his face is etched with symbols and scars that she does not understand. “All I know is the kill.”

“Then kill me.”

The projections flicker. He watches her, wary, and she shrugs, taking another step closer. “Kill me,” she says again. “If that’s all you are. If you’re just a monster.”

He stays silent, and she strides forward, closing the distance between them. “Kill me,” she says again.

“Natasha—”

“Kill me.”

“Stop—”

“Kill me or change.”

“Don’t—”

“Kill me or admit the truth.”

The projections flutter; they quiver. She sees Thor smile at Loki and clasp him by the shoulder. She sees a king leading two sons by the hand, telling tales of old. She sees herself, holstering her gun in India. 

“Why are you doing this?” he asks. 

“Because I know,” she says. “The hospital fire. Drakov and his daughter. I killed for the first time when I was twelve. I stabbed a boy because all he did was steal a loaf of bread from the Academy. And all of it—all of it—led to nothing. And when you’re there, in nothing, you think there’s no way out. So you run and you lie and you become convinced that you are nothing.”

She stops. Loki closes his eyes, and she sees Odin say no, she sees him fall into the Void. She sees him whisper to her a promise of death and suffering in the Carrier. She sees him whisper to her a promise of trust in Italy. 

“But there is a way out,” she says. “You came to me— you sent me all those postcards. Why?”

He stays silent. 

“Why?” she continues, pressing on, pressing forward. “Why did you visit me? Why did you send me the postcards? Why did you bring me to Italy?”

The projections flicker again. She sees herself dance. She sees herself fight. She sees herself sleep beside him in the night. He opens his eyes, and she is so close that she can see the ring of grey around the blue.

_Is he your lover? He looks upon you as one._

“So you can change how you feel about me,” she asks, “but you can’t about yourself?”

“Can you?” he asks, and Natasha stills. 

“Can you?” he asks again, pressing on, pressing forward. “Can you change how you feel about me?” They are engulfed by stars, by space, by glimpses of worlds that she’s never seen. 

“Tell me,” he says. “Tell me, Natasha. Can you?” 

She looks at him, but he does not relent. 

She looks at him, and she cannot breathe.

“Tell me,” he says.

_There is good in him._

“Tell me now or run.”

_Don’t be a fool._

She looks at him.

_Someday, Natasha—_

_Isn’t it funny?_

_Someday, Natasha—_

_Isn’t it funny the way the worlds turn and the fates fall?_

_You look—_

_You look—_

_You look—_

_Someday, Natasha, you will trust me._

“Tell me,” he says.

And she says, “Yes.”

*

They leave the church and return to the inn and climb the stairs to their room. She eases down onto the bed and he follows. 

She turns toward him, and he reaches out a hand, draws pale fingers against her hair.

She closes her eyes and rests her head beside his shoulder and they sleep.

*

When Loki wakes the next morning, Natasha is gone.

*


	11. Caged Birds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had laid all aspects of himself before her, sought a mirror to his own hate, but she had stared into the eyes of the beast and did not flinch.

Upon waking, Loki first sees the light from the dawn set the cabernet dress that Natasha had worn aglow. Grime blemishes the soft fabric along with blood; the ragged edge of the hem skims the floor; but the dress survives, so slight a thing, and so does she.

And so does he, much to his surprise.

Loki remembers the previous night, how Natasha had shed her protection against the cold and stood before him, unafraid. He had laid all aspects of himself before her, sought a mirror to his own hate, but she had stared into the eyes of the beast and did not flinch.

He stood before her, a trembling thing, and she had led him from the Void, from the dark center of his universe, bestowing upon him compassion he knows does not deserve.

 _Tell me_ , he had said.

And she had said, _Yes_.

Loki sits and finds the note on her pillow, the lettering small and precise. 

_Gone for supplies. Need a jacket. And shoes. And pants.  
Also, Thor is okay.  
—N_

His eyes linger on Thor. He had sought death for his brother innumerable times and refused the concern shown in recompense, hating the equanimity that Thor had found in his banishment, a feeling that Loki had thought he would never attain, his soul the soul of a monster, a brute made of ice and rage.

_You run and you lie and you become convinced that you are nothing._

_But there is a way out._

Loki stands. He thinks for a moment and then changes his shirt and pants into a grey suit and jacket, reclaiming the makila that Natasha had left quivering in a robot in Venice. His leg has healed, but his chest still burns from the final blasts from Doom. He had not anticipated Doom’s prowess with sorcery. Loki had fought against giants and gods, but Doom had rebuffed his earliest strikes, and he had stumbled for his arrogance. 

He remembers Natasha sliding to his aid, shooting Doom as the energy bloomed again between his hands.

Loki had fled then, but he will not flee again.

Pocketing her note, he leaves the inn, unsure of the next step, whether to confront Doom and end the conflict now or to wait. Loki wants to see Paris and compare Natasha to the _Mona Lisa_ , her smile as inscrutable as Leonardo’s muse. 

His decision is made for him when he sees Natasha’s phone lying in the middle of the street, cracked along one edge. Scratches from what he knows to be her heels gouge the surrounding pavement, from where she had fought.

“Sir! Sir!”

Loki turns to see the morning concierge exit the inn, a small envelope grasped in her hand. She stops before him, a little breathless, and smiles. “I almost forgot to deliver this to you,” she says in softly accented English. “The gentleman who left the note relayed its importance most ardently.”

She hands Loki the envelope and returns to the inn. Loki sees his name written across the front of the envelope in blunt, bold letters. 

Opening the flap, he finds a small lock of red hair inside along with a white card. Retrieving the card, he reads, in the same blunt, bold hand:

_Remuneration for stolen funds._

Fury begins to kindle his blood. He retrieves Natasha’s phone and then stalks back into the inn. The concierge looks up and smiles before faltering at the expression on his face.

“How long ago was this left?” Loki asks, holding up the envelope.

“An hour ago, sir. Would you— would you like to leave a reply?”

Loki turns away without responding and leaves the inn again. He stares down the road cutting through the town. An hour. Where would Doom go in that time? Where would he take Natasha? Back to Italy? Or to his own country? Loki combs back through his memory, recalls their first confrontation on the Bridge of Sighs. Latveria. Doom had declared himself to be the king of Latveria. Loki had never heard of the country, and he needed to know the location before he could teleport himself there. 

He needed information if he was going to successfully rescue Natasha.

Loki looks down at her phone and sighs. Turning it on, he skims through her list of contacts and then clicks Fury’s name.

Fury answers after a few rings.

“Natasha,” he says, “where—”

“No. This is Loki. Doom has taken Natasha.” He hesitates before continuing. “I need your help.”

*

Natasha wakes in the middle of a dark room. She sits in a chair bolted to the floor; restraints tie her wrists and ankles to the chair. She’s still in her ugly tourist clothes, but her shoes are gone and so is her bag. Craning her head to look behind her, she feels a wave of nausea overcome her and she stills. 

Chloroform. Doom, or one of his robots, had used chloroform against her.

Fighting back the nausea, Natasha glances behind her, but she sees nothing that would assist her in escape. The room is large, but there is no other furniture, no windows, nothing save for one door before her. A window sits high in the door, and, through the glass, she sees one of Doom’s robots stare at her.

Natasha closes her eyes; her head spins as another wave of nausea washes over her.

She remembers waking beside Loki. His hand still rested beside her hair. She watched him in the light beginning to spill into the room from the dawn. Some of the tension in his body had faded. She remembered the feeling, the release of the breath that had caught between your lungs when you dodged the bullet that is you.

He would never find peace, she knew, despite Odin’s wish. Peace was not an option for people like her and Loki, but now he could stop running and maybe so could she.

At that, she almost smiled.

Natasha remembers looking at her phone, seeing the messages from Fury and Clint giving the all clear, the texts saying that the plane had caught fire but not exploded and that everyone had made it to safety. She had closed her eyes, had allowed herself a moment to feel relief, and then she had eased from the bed. She remembers grimacing at the ugly clothes that she wore, resolving to buy more supplies. Scribbling a note to Loki on the back of the pharmacy receipt, she had left for the general store in town.

Doom had ambushed her as soon as she stepped from the inn.

The door opens now, and he enters with two of his robots. She wonders if he ever surrounded himself with human servants, but Natasha dismisses the option almost immediately. Someone like Doom would want complete control, and the living are so easily swayed by their emotions.

“It is a pleasure to see you again, Natalia,” Doom says, stopping before her. He wears another fitted black suit and the signet ring on his hand. He looks at her, takes in her cuts and bruises, and smiles. “I must say, your escape from Venice impressed me greatly. The ease with which you dismantled my robots, your clever use of the fire strips. Your reputation did not lie. You are a formidable warrior.”

She stays silent and peers beyond him into the hall, but she sees nothing of note except blank white walls.

“And your companion,” he continues. The smile stiffens upon his face, and she sees his right hand twitch by his side. “I thought I knew all of the notable sorcerers on Earth. My error is understandable though since it seems that he is not from Earth, but from Asgard, a place out of legend.”

He pauses, but she does not reply. She meets his gaze, her face impassive.

After a moment, Doom continues. “I will assume that everything you say is a lie until I break you, but as that may take some time, again, given your reputation, I will give you one chance to tell me what I want to know about Loki and about the information that S.H.I.E.L.D. has collected about me. If you do, you will remain here, unharmed. If you don’t, then the near future will be quite unfortunate for you.”

He looks at her and waits. Natasha raises a brow.

“Your silence is expected,” he says. “Perhaps you expect rescue from your fellow Avengers. Or from Loki. What lengths would a man such as he go to in order to rescue a woman such as you?” He smiles again, and the smile unsettles Natasha more than any of the words he has spoken. “They will try,” he says. “ _He_ will try. But they will fail. Yet you can allow them to live after they have failed if you tell me what I want to know.”

Doom holds her gaze, and Natasha feels the first strands of panic begin to wind within her.

“You have one hour to decide,” he says before turning and striding for the door. His final words echo in the click of the lock in the steel.

*

Thirty minutes after calling Fury, Loki teleports onto the deck of the Helicarrier, at rest in the Adriatic Sea. They have all assembled and now surround him. Before him stands Fury, his gun extended and pointed at Loki. Beside Fury stands Barton with his bow and then the other woman from S.H.I.E.L.D. Loki sees the Captain to his right, assessing him carefully. Above him hovers Stark in his suit, weapons charged. Glancing behind him, Loki sees the beast in its human form. 

Last, to his left, is Thor.

Loki looks at each of them in turn and then he holds out the envelope to Fury. Fury steps forward and lowers his gun. Retrieving the envelope, he peers inside and his face hardens.

“Hill,” he says.

The woman steps forward. “Sir.”

“Bring up all the information we have about Doom and Latveria. Start searching all airports in Switzerland for private flights leaving within the last hour.”

“Yes, sir.” She nods once before striding away.

As she disappears inside the Carrier, Fury looks back at Loki and says, “While you are here, you will be confined to the cage.” Thor starts forward, but Fury cuts him off. “This is not an option open for discussion. If you or your brother find this disagreeable, you can leave this boat.” Fury eyes Loki and then grimaces. “Not that it’ll do a whole lot of good since apparently you can just vanish on a whim, but you pissed off a whole lot of people the last time you were here and they’d probably like to get a little retribution.”

Barton shifts beside Fury. He raises his bow a little higher.

Loki stares at Barton as Fury continues. “Seeing as how you fought Doom and lived, someone will be in to question you about his tactics. You will answer these questions honestly. If you start to lie or manipulate or do any of the other shit that you did before, nerve gas will be pumped into the cage, and we can test which is faster: you or the gas. Do you accept these terms?”

“Under one condition.”

Fury raises a brow, but waits for him to continue.

“When you leave to rescue Natasha,” Loki says, “I will accompany you.”

“No fucking way.”

Both Loki and Fury look at Barton, who stares at Loki, furious. 

“Do you know magic, Barton?” Loki asks, holding his gaze. “Do you any of you?” he continues, turning to each of the Avengers. “Because while Doom is sure to be surrounded by his mechanical contraptions, he will also use sorcery to defend himself. And he is formidable with magic and will eviscerate most of you within seconds if he casts upon you.”

Barton opens his mouth to retort, but the Captain steps forward and says to Fury, “We should consider it, sir. I’ve read what we have on Doom, and the reports support what Loki says.”

Thor turns now toward Fury. “I assure you that my brother wishes only to rescue Agent Romanov. He will not jeopardize this mission.”

Fury contemplates Thor and then the Captain before focusing his gaze back on Loki. Loki looks once at Thor and then says to Fury, “I have no wish to resume our previous conflict. Besides, you can always set your beast upon me again if you believe me to be lying.”

Loki hears the beast move behind him. His gut clenches at the memory of their prior meeting.

Fury grits his teeth and draws in a breath. He regards Loki a moment longer; then he holsters his gun. “Fine,” he says. “You can come. But if you do anything to fuck this up, you’ll have more than the Hulk to worry about.” Glancing at the Captain, he says, “Take him to the cage.” Then he turns and walks away. 

* 

Doom returns after an hour.

Natasha greets him with a level stare.

He smiles at her silence and then saunters again from the room.

As the door closes behind him, the first electric shocks begin.

*


	12. The Ant and the Boot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the cage, Loki waits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **There are brief scenes of torture in this chapter.**

The shocks course in waves from the restraints binding her wrists and ankles to the chair. Each shock jerks her, causes her nerves to sizzle and spin. Natasha grits her teeth and bears it as much as she can. “Ride the lightning,” she mutters.

The robot beyond the window tilts its head at her.

After the shocks come the sounds. Screeching, piercing, relentless sounds. 

With her hands restrained, all Natasha can do is listen. She tries to stay calm. She breathes in as deeply as she can and exhales slowly, but after ten minutes, twenty, half an hour, the sounds jut into her brain and grate inside her, scraping her nerves raw.

Her head aches from the chloroform. Each breath draws a sting from her cracked rib.

Natasha closes her eyes and tries to remember the look of Venice through the fog in moonlight.

*

In the cage, Loki waits. 

Two hours since his internment. About halfway through the time, he had heard the Carrier’s turbines fire, felt the boat rock as it achieved flight. Yet still he is in the cage, and still no one has come to question him or release him.

So Loki paces and waits. He paces and remembers.

She had come to him here, and he had taunted her, seeing what she had wanted him to see, the mawkish doll pleading for a man. Never had he expected what would follow, what he would learn of her, what she would see of him. 

Never had he expected to care.

The door opens, and the Captain strides in. Loki stops pacing and moves to the center of the cage. The Captain stands at attention before the glass, and Loki says, “I expected it to be Barton. I’m sure he would relish the chance at interrogation, particularly the more… forceful methods.”

The Captain shakes his head. “I thought a more neutral party would be best. Clint and Tony have too much history with Natasha, and you have too much history with Thor and Bruce, so here I am.”

_And here you are._

_And here I am._

Loki pushes away the memory of Natasha and India and focuses his attention on the Captain. He cannot remember ever seeing the Captain outside of his ghastly uniform. Strangely, he looks both older and younger than Loki had anticipated. 

As he stares at the Captain, Loki waits for the questions, for the tedium of the interrogation, time slipping away, but the Captain stays silent and watches him instead. Smirking, Loki says, “Is this a new method of interrogation? One without questions? I daresay you’ll learn very little that way.”

The Captain shakes his head. Then he says, “I read your postcards.”

Loki narrows his eyes. 

Holding up a conciliatory hand, the Captain continues, “Natasha had to turn them in. Fury almost put her in the brig for letting you go in the first place. People thought she was crazy. If she hadn’t handed over the postcards, you’d probably be dead by now.”

“So I should thank you and S.H.I.E.L.D. for your interest in my missives?”

Ignoring the edge in Loki’s voice, the Captain folds his arms across his chest and continues to stare. “I also talked with Thor,” he says. “On our way to Latveria.”

“I’m sure that was a pleasant conversation. Thor is the most eloquent of speakers.”

The Captain stays silent. He moves to the rail, leans against it, and continues to regard Loki, his brows drawn together. Loki rolls his eyes and turns away. Why had he ever come to them for aid? They dithered away, locking him in here for hours, while Natasha—

“I wasn’t always like this, you know,” the Captain says, interrupting his train of thought.

“No? How unfortunate.”

“I probably came up to your elbow. And I probably weighed about as much as that fancy helmet that you sometimes wear.”

Loki closes his eyes and sighs. “I would actually prefer the interrogation about Doom, if you don’t mind.”

“You see, Loki,” the Captain says, unfazed by his irritation, “I had a friend back then. His name was James, but everybody called him Bucky. And compared to me he was like a god.”

Loki opens his eyes. He turns his head and glares over his shoulder at the Captain. 

“And I,” the Captain says, shaking his head at the memories, a small smile beginning to form on his face, “I would have given anything to be like him. To have people look at me like they did him. To respect me like they did him. I even signed up to be a Stark science experiment in order to be more like him.”

The smile starts to fade, and Loki turns away. He has no desire to hear any more, no desire to explore the heretofore-unknown sympathies between the Captain and himself, but regrettably the Captain does not stop. He presses on.

“And the funny thing is,” he says, “the science experiment worked. People respected me like they had Bucky. Girls, well, you know, they did too. And then Bucky was the one that people ignored.” The Captain pauses; he shifts against the rail. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. “But then he died. He was trying to help me, and he died. And I would give anything right now for him to be alive. He was the closest thing to a family that I had. I would give up all of this, the power, the suit, everything for Bucky to be alive again. I’d go back to being the small guy that no one sees in a heartbeat. Because the power, all of it, none of it matters if you’re alone, if no one knows who you really are. And no one knows you like family.”

Silence follows the Captain’s speech. Loki turns back around. He meets the Captain’s gaze and tries to ignore the familiar look on his face, the yearning for what has been lost. 

“You surprise me, Captain,” Loki says, moving closer to the glass. “You’re not nearly as dull as your name would imply.”

The Captain eyes him through the glass. “And you’re not nearly as heartless as your previous actions would imply.” He almost smiles now, and Loki understands why he, out of all of them, is their leader.

“So,” the Captain says, pushing off of the rail, “what can you tell me about Doom?”

*

In the midst of the pandemonium, the heat begins.

The temperature rises until sweat soaks Natasha’s clothes and stings her eyes. She feels her heart start to beat faster as her body struggles to keep cool. Her muscles cramp from her time in the chair, from the shocks, relentless, from the sounds, and she feels the edges of delirium nipping at her mind. The last food that she ate was in Venice before the soirée; the last drink that she had was the bourbon in Switzerland.

All she can think about now is water. Water and ice. Water and cold. 

Loki with his blue skin, Loki with his blue eyes.

_What lengths would a man such as he go to in order to rescue a woman such as you?_

In the window, the robot watches, distant and aloof.

In the chair, Natasha sits, her body on fire.

*

Another hour after the Captain leaves, he returns and leads Loki from the Cage in restraints. 

The Carrier looks new, fully repaired after his previous visit when he had orchestrated the unleashing of the beast. Loki contemplates the distance between the man thriving in that chaos and the man now walking the empty halls. He understands still the thrill of that chaos, but he knows where that road leads, and he has no interest in the Void at the end.

Perhaps this is what Natasha had meant by circumstance. The past remained fixed, you were who you were, the deadly little girl who had killed as a child, the monster that had haunted the halls of Asgard, yet one was able to mold the future into a vision of life that suited the desires of the present. One was able to choose.

The Captain leads him onto the deck. Screens have been erected between the conference table at which Fury and the rest sit and the workstations controlling the ship beyond. Whether they are to block the nameless agents from Loki or Loki from the nameless agents he does not know.

The Captain points to a chair beside Thor. Loki hesitates, eyeing his brother, but then he sits, the chains of his restraints clinking against his chair. The Captain takes the empty seat on his left. The beast and Stark sit next to the Captain, followed by Barton, directly across from Loki, and then Hill and Fury. The tabletop before them displays a satellite image of a set of buildings in Latveria.

Fury stands. “Given what we know,” he begins, “our best guess as to where Doom has taken Agent Romanov is this military compound some ways south of the Latverian capital. Now, we’re located above this area now, but the thing about these psychotic dictators is that they don’t allow much for census taking or for official blueprints. So we don’t know much about any of these buildings or which one would be most likely to have Natasha.”

He turns to the Captain now, who stands and says, “On top of what we don’t know, there’s what we do know. Doom has two anti-aircraft guns stationed at the north and south ends of the compound, two watchtowers at the East and West ends, and all of these little blue dots, which Tony has informed me are sentient fighting robots designed to kill upon command.” The Captain pauses at that and shakes his head. “Knowing all this,” he continues, “we could try stealth, which would take time, or a frontal assault, which could deteriorate quickly—”

“Or you could send me in,” Loki says. 

All eyes fall upon him, including Fury’s. “And what exactly would that accomplish?” Fury asks, turning toward him.

“Covert surveillance. I can go down to the compound and search undetected for Natasha.”

“By undetected,” Stark says, leaning across the table toward Loki, “does that mean invisible? Because, if so—”

“Not invisible,” Loki says, stopping whatever inanity Stark desires to spew. “Just unseen.”

“There’s a difference?”

Loki sighs and turns to Thor. “Care to explain to the more simple-minded members of your team?”

Thor gives him a look of warning, but Loki merely shrugs. Repressing his own sigh, Thor turns back to the rest of the table and says, “Loki’s magic allows him to shield himself from the observation of others. It is not that he is invisible. Instead, those around him see only an illusion of absence. The illusion lifts if he allows it. He could converse with Agent Romanov with this Doom in the room alongside them, and Doom would not know.”

Stark purses his lips at Loki, waits a moment, and then says, “So, invisible.”

The beast closes his eyes and rubs a hand across his brow.

Loki turns now to Fury. “I need only twenty minutes,” he says. “Twenty minutes and I will return with Natasha or I will bring you her location and you can descend upon that compound with all of the wrath that your name implies.”

Fury rolls his eye at that and looks at Barton. “Your thoughts, Agent?”

Loki knows that, throughout the conversation, since the moment that the Captain had escorted him into the room, Barton had watched him. Now, he meets Barton’s gaze. Of all the Avengers at the table, save, perhaps, for the Captain, Barton intrigues Loki the most. He was the man who had looked at Natasha and saw something worth saving. What within her had attracted him then? What within her did he love now? Did he appreciate her cunning, the jagged edges belied by the soft hair and ocean eyes, or did Barton only love that softness, the rare moments when she smiled? 

Loki remembers the tension in Natasha as she had told Barton of their plan to attend Doom’s soirée, her knuckles whitening at whatever Barton had spoken to her over the phone. While the love that Barton carries for Natasha Loki can easily see, he has been unable to discern how Natasha feels for Barton in return. She had denied love during their first meeting, during her deception at the cage, subscribing her desire for Barton’s freedom only to a debt, but she had bristled when Loki had mentioned him in Switzerland.

_You run from Barton._

_Don’t talk about Clint._

Now Barton regards Loki through impassive eyes. Loki returns the stare and waits.

Without looking away, Barton says to Fury, “He can do what he says. Give him his window.”

Loki raises a brow, and now Barton turns away, keeping his gaze fixed on Fury as Fury exhales slowly and then stands. Reaching into his pocket, Fury extracts the key to Loki’s restraints as well as a small device for communication.

Moving towards him, Fury says, “You have your minutes. If you run, you can consider our previous conflict re-engaged.” He unlocks the restraints and hands Loki the communication device. Loki rubs his wrists and peers down at the satellite image. Fixing his point of entry in his mind, he starts to move away from the table, but Fury grabs his shoulder. Leaning in, his voice low, his mouth close to Loki’s ear, he says, “And if Agent Romanov happens to die because you fuck up in some way, well, then, you can try to run, but we’ll find you, no matter whose brother you are.”

Loki smirks. “And I’ll welcome you,” he says, “no matter how many beasts you bring with you.” 

Releasing him, Fury returns to his spot at the table, and Loki moves to the open area of the deck. He closes his eyes, pictures his point of entry, and then the familiar green energy takes him down to Earth.

*

After the heat comes the robot, who, one by one, breaks the fingers of her left hand.

It is then that Natasha screams.

*


	13. The Oncoming Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki sees the stairs extend both up into the building as well as down below the ground. He chooses down. Doom would keep her in the center of the maze, wanting to lure him all the way in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title borrowed from Doctor Who.

Loki arrives in the middle of the compound. Three robots stand within sight, and they pause as he rises from his crouch. One tilts its head toward him. Beneath the illusion, Loki calls for his armor and staff. He does not know how long the illusion will fool the robot, usually circuitry as easy to manipulate as brain waves, but these robots come from Doom, himself schooled in magic, so Loki quickly scans the nearby buildings.

Four surround the center of the compound. Loki looks at windows and doors, at rooftops and walls. He dismisses the massive building to his right, catching a glimpse of the flat concrete road extending from the opposite side: a storage facility for vehicles, possibly a small plane. An unlikely place for a hostage.

The second robot now turns its head toward Loki.

He also rejects the immense structure behind him, eyeing the worn ground between this one and the storage facility, the massive steel door, the intricate electronic locks and the heavy concrete walls: a warehouse, likely for weapons. Doom would not be so foolish as to place Natasha within twenty feet of weapons, not with any sort of knowledge of her abilities.

To his left lays a low, long rectangle with simple wood framing, doors without complicated locks, and a cluster of steel pipes jutting from the roof. Living quarters, possibly dining, for when soldiers occupy the base. Another unlikely place for Natasha, given its lack of fortifications.

The third robot begins to scan the area surrounding Loki as well.

The last building, standing before him, intrigues Loki. Three-stories above ground, but possibly more beneath; one door, guarded by two robots and another intricate lock; heavy concrete walls, but with windows ringing the top of the building, allowing one to survey the compound and the rest of the base beyond.

Loki smirks as the first of the robots starts his way and then he teleports inside.

He finds himself on the interior side of the door at the junction of two hallways. Fluorescent lights illuminate the bare tiled halls. He starts down the hall to his left, passing a number of doors, some open, some closed, all too thin for a cage. At the end of the hall, Loki discovers a door to a staircase beside a small numeric pad. Teleporting to the other side, he sees the stairs extend both up into the building as well as down below the ground. 

He chooses down.

Doom would keep her in the center of the maze, wanting to lure him all the way in.

Loki passes two floors before he reaches the bottom of the stairs. A heavy steel door accompanied by one of the electronic locks bars his way, but he shifts inside. He stands upon a cold stone floor in a narrow hall with four of the same heavy steel doors leading to rooms beyond. He hears nothing, sees no one save for one of Doom’s robots standing before the last of the doors, peering into the adjoining room through a small pane of glass. 

Loki eases down the hall. The same small window exists in the other three doors, but Loki passes them by, knowing Natasha is in the end. What else would the robot be observing? 

Ten feet away and the robot pivots in his direction. Loki teleports behind it and shoves his staff into its head, piercing the circuitry. The robot twitches and then flops, inert. Still holding the staff that holds the robot, Loki turns to the window and looks inside the room.

Natasha sits in a chair in the center of the room, alone, her hands and feet bound and her head slumped over on her chest. 

Kicking the robot off his staff, Loki teleports inside. The heat in the room staggers him. He cringes at the roar of sound that assaults his ears, and he smells sweat and blood and something he suspects is scorched flesh. 

He moves toward Natasha and kneels down beside her. The fingers of her left hand skew at unnatural angles. Ignoring the fury brewing inside him, Loki vanishes the staff and lays a hand on her right wrist; he feels her pulse feeble beneath his fingertips. 

Extending the illusion of an empty room around them both, he eases back her head, but she does not stir. Her face is hot and dry beneath his hands. He closes his eyes, feels for Jotunheim within him, and then the air around him and Natasha begins to cool. 

After a moment, Loki opens his eyes, but she has not moved. He places a hand on her neck, focuses the chill into his touch. Bringing his head close to hers, he rests his lips next to her ear, and, over the screech and the din, he says, “Natasha. Natasha. Agent Romanov, you need to open your eyes and look at me right now.”

Natasha moves; Loki eases back. Eyelids fluttering, she moans once and then opens her eyes. She blinks, her eyes glassy and dazed. She blinks again and then she focuses on him. Loki cannot hear her above the noise, but he sees her say his name. Moving his ear close to her lips, he hears her whisper, “Took you long enough,” and he smiles in relief. 

“Can you move?” he asks.

Looking at Natasha again, he sees her nod. He removes his hands from her face and neck and starts unlatching the restraint binding her right wrist. Freeing her hand, he clenches his jaw at the state of her wrist, the skin scorched and swollen; then he moves to the restraint holding her broken left hand.

As soon as his fingertips touch the metal latch, the roar of sound around them stops and Loki freezes in the silence.

“I know you are here,” Doom says from behind him, “though I may not be able to see you. The temperature in the room is still falling despite my orders for it to rise. And you stabbed my favorite robot in the head.”

Loki looks at Natasha and then glances behind him. Doom stands just within the open door, clad in full armor; he lifts a hand, and four robots slip into the room with him and surround them.

Eyeing Doom, Loki raises his hand to the comm in his ear, switches it on, and says, “Three-story building with the windows at the top. Bottom floor. Last door. Doom knows we’re here.”

He hands the comm to Natasha and then turns to the second restraint. He cannot teleport Natasha away while she is bound to the chair, otherwise he would take her and the chair and the floor to which the chair is bolted and then the building with him, and he doubts the Helicarrier can stay in flight with a six-story building dropped onto its deck.

“Yes,” Natasha says. “He’s… freeing me…”

The latch releases, and Loki eases her hand from the binding. Then he hears the crackle of energy behind him and has just enough time to conjure a blocking shield before the energy strikes. It sizzles against the shield, tracing the dome of its protection in purple bolts of lightning. 

He hears Doom laugh. 

He hears Natasha say, “We’re under… fire…”

“Fire at the chair,” Doom orders the robots, and they obey. Loki grimaces under the attack from the robots and from Doom, his focus divided between the shield, the illusion, and the cooling spell. He drops the cooling spell, and the heat swoops back in and snatches the breath from his lungs. 

He bends down to the binding around Natasha’s left ankle. An alarm starts to sound throughout the building, and the ground beneath them shakes as Doom’s anti-aircraft guns begin to fire. Loki opens the restraint, and Natasha inches her leg free, wincing at the pain.

He hears Doom mutter behind him. Loki feels the air in the room contract, and he sees Natasha’s eyes widen. Dropping the illusion, Loki focuses all his energy on the force field, and then the incendiary blast explodes in the hole. The robots disintegrate in the inferno, and Loki buckles. Sweat starts to slide down his face and his hands clench as the fire assaults the shield.

He hears Natasha cry out as she tries to lean over. Her hand slips over the last restraint.

The fire vanishes, and then Doom says, “Ah, there you are.”

The ground beneath them shakes again, and even three stories down, Loki hears the roar of the Hulk.

Doom starts to cast another spell. Natasha’s hand slips again, and Loki helps her to open the last restraint. Then he stands, reaches down, and starts to lift her from the chair.

He cannot.

“She’s not going anywhere,” Doom says, striding forward into the room. “Not while I’m here.”

Thunder rumbles outside the building. 

Natasha tries to stand, to lift herself from the chair, but she cannot.

“You vanished from me the last time,” Doom continues. “That will not happen again.”

The Hulk roars again, louder this time, closer. 

Loki looks at Natasha. She looked so beautiful then, clad in wine and diamonds, her skin glowing beneath the golden light of the Venetian palazzo. But now he cannot breathe when he looks at her, as he raises a hand to her face and slides his thumb against her cheek. She stares up at him as he whispers an incantation. He sees the rune blossom in the flushed skin of her face and then fade away. 

He holds her for a moment longer, and it is then that she knows. She reaches out a hand to stop him, but Loki turns and tackles Doom, teleporting them away.

*

Natasha watches Loki vanish with Doom. Dread seizes her as soon as the last of the green light fades. Why? Why? Why had he done this? 

Natasha closes her eyes. She knows why. She knows. She knows from the way that he had laid beside her in Switzerland, the way he had smiled when she said his name upon waking in the chair, the way he had looked at her before he left with Doom, left with Doom to save her. 

Natasha raises her right hand to her cheek. She still feels the crispness that had spread through her at his whispered words, the phrase like a cool breeze on a hot summer’s day. She hadn’t recognized the words, or the language spoken, but she will know. Somehow she will know. She will find Loki, Doom will not kill him, and she will know.

Cradling her left hand to her chest, Natasha places her feet flat on the floor. She winces as her muscles spasm from the electric shocks, and then she pushes off the chair with her right hand. She sways as she stands, she grits her teeth as nausea threatens again, and then she takes a step forward.

It is then that one of Doom’s robots enters the room.

The robot twitches as it stumbles forward. Natasha sees the gash in its head, the exposed wiring expelling sparks. This must be the one that Loki had stabbed, the one that Doom had called his favorite, the one that had watched her during the hours of torture and had broken the fingers of her left hand as she screamed.

The robot faces her, and she has nothing, no guns, no knives, no gear, no comm, the device inactive since the inferno blast. Natasha has nothing but her, battered and bruised and pissed off beyond all belief.

_Do you see what I am?_

The robot faces her, and Natasha smiles.

_I am death._

_All I know is the kill._

*


	14. Somewhere I Have Never Travelled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In battle, Steve knows, soldiers fall, but Natasha is not a soldier. She is his friend, and the silence on the comm the past few minutes has sent a thread of panic darting through him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the E.E. Cummings poem of the same name.

In battle, Steve knows, soldiers fall, but Natasha is not a soldier. She is his friend, and the silence on the comm the past few minutes has sent a thread of panic darting through him. He kicks again at the door to the stairwell, having shorn off the numeric pad with his shield, and it finally gives way beneath his boot. 

Outside, he knows that Tony circles the last anti-aircraft gun, and Clint, in the plane, fires at the East watchtower. The Hulk charges the West watchtower, and thunder sounds as Thor releases the energy from Mjolnir at the swarm of robots that surround him. But what occurs down below with Loki and Natasha and Doom Steve does not know, and because of this, he runs. 

He charges down the stairs, hearing nothing but the sound of his breathing and the clang of his boots on the stairs. He passes the first floor and then the second and then he hears something like lightning explode in the floor below. 

Leaping over the rail, Steve jumps the rest of the way down and lands before an open steel door. Moving towards it, he sees nothing in the hall beyond but fading green light. He adjusts his grip on his shield and starts running down the hall to the last room on the left. 

In the room, he finds Natasha on the floor beside an iron chair. Aside from the small circle of floor surrounding her, the rest of the room is charred, blackened and smoking. Steve does not see either Loki or Doom, but he sees the remains of a robot scattered about the room, still crackling with green energy.

“Natasha,” he says as he moves toward her. “Natasha, are you all right? What happened?”

Disoriented, she looks up as he approaches. Steve sees a green symbol on her cheek start to fade as he kneels down beside her.

“Natasha. Talk to me. Where’s Loki?”

She stares down at her right hand as he straps his shield to his back. “He took Doom,” she says. “He took him… He couldn’t get me out…” She peers beyond him to the shattered robot. “I don’t… I don’t know…”

She trails off, her voice thin, and Steve wills himself not to panic. He sees the burns on her wrists, her left hand held close to her chest, the fingers swollen and bruised. Activating the comm, he says, “Clint, bring the plane to the building. Now. I found Natasha.”

Lifting Natasha into his arms, he eases back into the hall and starts for the stairwell, careful not to jostle her too much as he runs. 

“We have to…” she says. “We have to find…”

“We will.”

Steve climbs the stairs and inches around the broken door. He feels Natasha’s head slump against his chest, and he knows that she has lost consciousness. Increasing his speed, he runs back down the hall and out of the building. The plane waits for him in the middle of the square. Clint lowers the rear hatch as he approaches, and once inside, he turns to him and yells, “Go.” 

Clint closes the hatch and takes off. “How is she?” he asks.

“Alive,” Steve says as he lays Natasha on the bunk in the corner and straps her in. 

“And him?” Clint asks. He pilots the plane away from the compound. “Where is he?”

Steve looks down at Natasha and remembers what she had said. “He took Doom, teleported him away, I guess. Natasha said he couldn’t get her out for some reason, so he took Doom instead.” Clint eyes him as he approaches, but refrains from comment. Removing his shield, Steve sits in the chair beside Clint and gives the evacuation order to the rest of the team. 

When Steve had questioned him in the cage, Loki had admitted to Doom’s skill as a sorcerer and how his earlier hubris had forced him to flee Venice with Natasha. And now Loki had chosen to face Doom alone, rather than keep Natasha within striking distance of him. 

Steve sits for a moment, and then he presses the button connecting the plane to the Carrier. “Agent Hill?” he says.

“Yes?”

“Use whatever tech you have to scan the area for Loki and Doom. Search for unusual changes in the atmosphere, sudden reports of fires or earthquakes.”

“Yes, sir. I can also patch into nearby video feeds and satellite relays. Any recommendations for a starting point?”

Steve pauses. He drums his fingers against the console and then he says, “Start by focusing on the places that Loki has been recently, Italy, Switzerland, and then on back.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And have medical waiting for us on the deck.”

“Yes, sir,” she says again, and Steve switches off the comm. He waits for Clint to respond to his order about Loki, but Clint stays silent. Steve knows how he feels about Natasha, and he knows how Clint suffered under Loki’s subjugation; he can only guess how Clint feels about the past day, about the man that he hates sacrificing himself for the woman that Clint loves. 

“When the plane lands,” Steve says, “I want you to take Natasha to medical. I can pilot the plane to wherever we need to go next.”

Clint stays silent and eyes him again, but then he nods and turns away. 

Through the windshield, Steve sees the deck of the Carrier. Clint eases the plane around and approaches to land. As the wheels touch down upon the deck, the med team scurries over. Steve opens the hatch, and they move inside, freeing Natasha from the safety harness and placing her upon a stretcher.

Clint follows as they take her away.

Steve watches them disappear inside the Carrier and waits for the others to arrive. He wonders how he’s going to explain to the future king of Asgard how his brother just vanished without a trace with the formidable psychotic sorcerer who’s tried to kill him twice. Whatever level head Thor possesses vanishes when it comes to Loki, Steve knows. What would he do to rescue Loki? What would he do if they were too late?

He sees Tony land on the deck, Bruce in one hand, one of Doom’s incapacitated robots in the other; Bruce lets go of Tony and shudders, then he says something to him. Tony shrugs, and Bruce narrows his eyes. Pushing back from the console, Steve grabs his shield and exits the plane. As he walks around to the front, Thor appears in the distance, Mjolnir thrust before him. He lands with a clang beside Tony. 

“Where is Loki?” he asks, striding toward the plane.

Steve hesitates. 

“Where is my brother?” Thor asks again, Mjolnir gripped tight in his hand.

Drawing in a deep breath, Steve says, “He’s, uh, gone,” and then he explains to Thor, Tony, and Bruce what he saw when he had found Natasha, what Natasha had said to him, and her final request for aid. “We don’t know yet where they went,” he finishes, watching Thor. “But we’re looking. We should find them. Soon. We hope.”

Thor stares at him, silent. In the stare, Steve sees why Thor will be the future king of Asgard, the weight of power heavy in his eyes. A moment passes, and then he nods at Steve. “Please express my apologies to Agent Fury,” he says, turning away, “for what will happen next.” Then he strides toward the middle of the deck and looks up into the sky.

Steve looks at Tony and Bruce, and they shrug. Turning to Thor, Bruce says, “Thor, what, uh, what is going to happen next? You know I don’t mix very well with surprises.”

Thor glances at Bruce and says, “I intend to request Heimdall to open the Bifrost so that I can return to Asgard and find Loki.”

He looks again into the sky and opens his mouth to call, but then Tony darts forward and lays a hand on his arm. “Whoa, there, Fabio. I thought that the yellow brick road was broken and you had to use the Tesseract.”

Thor shrugs off Tony’s hand. “It was,” he says, “but we harnessed the power of the Tesseract to repair it. I can return and Heimdall can search for Loki and—”

“And then you can go after both of them by yourself,” Steve finishes.

Thor nods. “Loki is my brother, and I know you all think ill of him, so—”

“It doesn’t matter what we think about Loki,” Tony says. “We’re a team. You’re not going alone.” Thor glares at Tony, but Tony holds his gaze, defiant. 

“Tony’s right,” Steve says, starting forward to stand beside Thor. “But even if he weren’t, we would still go. Your brother made the sacrifice play with Doom. It’s only right that we follow suit.”

Thor looks at him and then at Tony and Bruce. Shifting Mjolnir to his other hand, he glances up at the sky, hesitates, but then nods. 

“Great,” Tony says, bouncing lightly on his feet. “I always wanted to go to Oz. I hope we’ll see Munchkins.”

Bruce rolls his eyes as he moves to stand beside Tony. “I doubt it. Asgard’s a land of gods, not midgets.”

“Good thing Steve took his Wheaties then.”

Steve glares at Tony, but refrains from comment. Turning to Thor, he says, “We’re ready whenever you are.”

Thor nods. Then he looks to the sky and bellows, “Heimdall! Open the Bifrost!”

The clouds above the Carrier begin to swirl. Steve cranes his head, and light, such as he has never seen before on Earth, shines upon him. The winds whip the swirling clouds into a funnel, and for the second time this year, Steve sees a glimpse of another world in the heavens. He has just enough time to draw in a breath, just enough time to question the sanity of this plan, before the sky charges down toward him, Bruce, Tony, and Thor. Stomach lurching, Steve closes his eyes, and the winds yank him away from Earth and hurl him across the stars to Asgard.

*

Steve remembers a ride at Coney Island that he rode before Captain America, before the war, that caused him to throw up the hot dogs that he had eaten about ten seconds into the ride: the Cyclone. He remembers Bucky laughing at him, remembers the acrid taste of bile in his mouth, the swoop in his gut that threatened a repeat performance. Steve feels the same bile now, the same swoop, as the winds still around him and solid footing reappears beneath his feet. 

Tony moans beside him; Steve thinks he’s lying on the ground, but he can’t open his eyes to look, not yet. 

“Oh my god,” Tony moans again, “I’m going to puke. I need a bag, no, a bucket. Bruce, do you think that the Hulk would mind if I hurled on him?”

“I think he might.” Bruce sounds as queasy as Tony.

Steve swallows hard and draws in a deep breath, steadying his nerves. Then he opens his eyes and feels queasy all over again as the most beautiful woman that he’s seen since Peggy Carter stands before him. She is tall, with long brown hair and brown eyes and the strong carriage of a warrior.

“Hi,” he says dumbly.

She narrows her eyes at him, but before he can say more, Thor strides forward and says, “Sif. Report.”

The woman, Sif, turns to Thor and says, “Heimdall searches from the Bridge.”

“Excellent,” Thor says. He starts to move away, but Sif lays a hand upon his arm. “Do you know what Loki has done for her?” she asks quietly, casting a quick look at Steve.

Thor frowns and shakes his head.

Sif hesitates, looking again at Steve, and then she says, “He invoked ægishjálmr. He bestowed the rune upon her.” 

Thor stares at Sif, his eyes wide. Then he begins to run, charging past Tony and Bruce as he races from the room, shouting for Heimdall. 

Steve watches him go, confusion drawing his brows together. “Uh, ma’am,” he says. “What just happened?”

Sif glances at him. Her gaze is sober, but Steve sees traces of awe in her eyes. “Ægishjálmr is the Helm of Awe,” she says. “In Asgardian magic, it is our most powerful and ancient form of protection. It requires one to give of himself in order to invoke the protection.”

“Give? Give what?”

“Life,” Sif says. “Given the cost, few conjure the rune, save for family or those… for those…” 

“Those in love?” Steve asks.

Sif nods. “Loki has rendered himself vulnerable before a powerful foe,” she continues, looking around the golden chamber. “I never thought I would see such a day, Loki regarding another before himself.”

“Love does that to a person,” Steve says. He remembers his own desperate chase after Red Skull, Peggy pulling him down and kissing him before he jumped onto the plane, before he crashed and was lost for a lifetime.

Sif peers at him again, but before she can speak, Thor strides back into the chamber, Heimdall trailing behind him. “We have a location,” he says, returning to his position by Steve.

Tony groans for the third time, but he pushes himself up off the ground. He helps Bruce to stand and then says, “I feel worse than I did that time I got drunk and did figure eights around the Empire State Building. Naked.”

Bruce closes his eyes and swallows hard. “Not an image I wanted to see, man.”

Thor waits for them to gather. He pauses as Sif steps up beside him, a double-edged spear now in her hands. Looking at him, she says, “I watched you mourn for Loki. Now I will help you fight for him.”

Thor assesses her carefully. After a moment, he says, “Thank you. I will not forget your aid.” Turning to the others, he asks, “Ready?”

“No,” Tony says.

“Yes,” Steve says, shooting Tony a look. Tony shrugs and leans an elbow against Bruce’s shoulder.

“Then Heimdall,” Thor says, “please open the Bifrost.”

*


	15. The Fire Within

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three hundred feet above Mt. Pilatus in Switzerland Loki rematerializes with Doom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is violence in this chapter, about the level seen in the movies.

Three hundred feet above Mt. Pilatus in Switzerland Loki rematerializes with Doom. A beat passes, and then Doom begins to struggle against his grasp, realizing the fall that lies before them. Loki smiles. He knows that he will survive the fall, but he surmises that Doom will not, the man still a simple Midgardian despite his mystical prowess and advanced armor.

Loki tightens his hold on Doom, and they plummet through the air, spinning, twisting, one on top of the other. Halfway to the ground, fire bursts from Doom’s hands and feet and their momentum shifts. They no longer fall, but fly, like Stark in his suit of iron, and Doom begins to slow their descent. 

Conjuring a ball of energy, Loki blasts Doom in the face, then he grabs the cape that Doom wears and twists it around Doom’s neck. The ends of the cape in his hands, Loki pulls. He pulls Doom over on top of him until once more they spin and tumble through the air. In the tumult, he projects a vision of the world without a ground, a world of endless sky, and Doom contorts, disoriented, first flying up and then heading down toward the ground, and, again, Loki smiles.

Seventy-five feet, fifty feet to the ground. As with his robots, Doom at last sees through the illusion, and he tries to reverse course, but it is too late; the ground is too close. Twenty feet from the ground, Loki releases Doom and teleports away; the jump slows his fall, but he still crashes through the trees and slams into the ground. Ten seconds later, Doom follows, ramming into the earth one hundred feet away.

In the silence that follows, Loki lies still and assesses the damage. His left arm juts from his body at an awkward angle, the shoulder dislocated. He coughs in the dust of his impact and feels blood splatter from his lungs onto his face; he must have punctured one crashing through the trees.

Lying still, he closes his eyes and breathes in the quiet. 

He’s survived worse falls.

A rustle sounds in the distance. Sitting, Loki sees Doom struggling to his feet in the clearing, his tunic torn. Narrowing his eyes, Loki reaches out with his mind and shoves Doom back down to the ground. Then he stands and grabs his dislocated shoulder, yanking it back into place. 

Doom tries to rise again. Loki teleports over, rears back, and kicks him in the face, grinning at the crunch of metal beneath his boot. Doom falls once more. Loki sees energy bloom between his hands, and he kicks Doom again, this time in the side. Doom’s hands skid against the ground, and Loki sees that his armor has cracked across his chest. Summoning his spear, he lifts it high into the air and brings it down toward Doom’s chest, but the rockets fire again and Doom careens away before impact. 

About forty feet from Loki, Doom hits a splintered tree and spins across the ground, coming to a rest sixty feet away. He lies still, and even from such a distance, Loki can see that his breathing is labored. Adjusting his grip on his spear, he saunters over and says to Doom, “You asked when we first met how I was able to steal from you.” More blood seeps from his mouth; spitting once, Loki narrows his eyes at Doom and says, “I would like to know how a simple man from Midgard was able to learn such magic.”

Still on the ground, Doom laughs. “Yes,” he says. “I suppose you would.” He turns his head and watches Loki approach. “You’re not the only one who’s been off world.”

Loki stops at that. “And where have you been, if I may ask?”

“You may ask,” Doom says as he pushes himself up off the ground, “only if I may ask in return how exactly you will feel when I leave here and burn Natalia Romanova until she is nothing more than ash.”

Silence follows the threat, and then Loki laughs. “She is beyond your reach,” he says. “You will not harm her again. You cannot.”

“Do you believe then that she will—?”

“Stop talking. I tire of you.” Loki reaches out again with his mind and slams Doom into a nearby tree. Teleporting next to him, Loki lifts the spear, but Doom knocks it from his hands with a blast of energy. 

Grabbing onto the crack in Doom’s armor, Loki searches for Jotunheim within him and starts to freeze the suit and Doom inside. Then he hears Doom mutter the spell for the inferno blast. Dropping his hands, Loki conjures a force shield, but this time wraps it around Doom, trapping the energy within the sphere.

Doom stops the spell, starts another. Loki hears the ground crack behind him and looks back to see a tree lifting from the ground. Turning back to Doom, he conjures a knife, drops the shield, and then rams the knife into the crack in the armor. The crack widens, but Doom thrusts Loki from him with a burst of energy, hurling him back into the uprooted tree.

Loki falls to the ground, winded. He feels more blood trickle from his mouth. He looks up, finds Doom before him, his foot raised to kick Loki in the face. Grabbing the leg upon which Doom stands, Loki yanks him forward, knocks him off balance, and then shoves him to the ground. 

Rising, he hears Doom start to mutter the inferno spell once again. Loki conjures his spear, leaps onto Doom, and then brings the spear down next to the knife, finally breaking through the crack to Doom beneath. 

In the next moment, Doom unleashes the explosion.

Fire flares around Loki, but he does not relent. He pushes down harder on the spear. Doom grabs the spear above his chest and halts the progress of the blade. Loki feels the fire start to burn the edges of his armor; he sees the flames lick along Doom’s tunic and cape. Bearing down upon the spear, Loki sees the blade sink another inch into Doom’s chest. 

The heat increases. The ends of Loki’s hair catch fire; he inhales and breathes in flames that set his lungs ablaze. Twisting the spear, he feels the blade embed further into Doom’s chest as the fire starts to burn his hands, his face. Then Doom removes one hand from the spear, reaches up, and grabs Loki’s neck, jerking him down towards him.

“If she will not burn,” he says, the words hissed above the flames, “then you will. Your world will burn. I will find Asgard. I will lay waste to whatever you care for there, and all you will be able to do is watch in despair. You think me a simple human, but I have been to worlds with magic that you would cower before. And once I have rendered your world extinct, I will return and, no matter what you say, I will kill Natalia Romanova.”

A beat passes and then Doom pulls the knife from his chest. He aims for Loki’s neck. 

Loki tenses to thrust the spear all the way down. 

Then the Captain’s shield comes barreling between them, knocking the knife from Doom’s hands. 

Startled, Loki looks up to find the Captain, Thor, Sif, Stark, and the beast in the clearing, the winds of the Bifrost deteriorating around them. He hears the air crackle, and he turns back to find Doom unleashing twin bursts of energy from his hands. The energy catches Loki full in the chest and propels him off. He plows into a tree; his ribs crack and his shoulder dislocates again. 

Crashing to the ground, Loki feels the world spin around him. The beast roars; rockets fire from Stark’s iron suit; and Loki tries to stand. He hears Thor call his name, sees him rush forward, but then his legs give way beneath him as the mountain around him spins and then fades to black.

*

Dehydration. Heat stroke. A cracked rib. Lacerations to the hands, arms, and legs. Contusions to the throat. A powder burn to the face and electric burns to the wrists and ankles. All fingers broken on the left hand. Possible hearing damage. 

Clint stares down at Natasha. She lays in a bed in the medical ward of the Carrier, still unconscious and strapped to more machines than Clint has seen in his life. Her skin is pale and dry like paper; a fresh cast cradles her left hand. The medic in charge had told him that he wanted to keep Natasha under until they had renewed her fluids with IV drips and lowered her temperature to within normal levels.

So she lays, so still, so without life, and Clint watches, fear churning in his gut.

He remembers Fury coming in an hour before to tell him that the rest of the team had vanished from the deck of the Carrier, the supposedly broken Bifrost now operational, but Clint hadn’t cared then. He still doesn’t care now. He hopes that Doom and Loki kill each other and that they free Natasha from their destructive grasp forever.

Turning, Clint pulls the one chair in the room close to the bed and sits down, continuing his watch. He cannot fathom a world without Natasha. Since S.H.I.E.L.D. had assigned him to assassinate her three years before, she has been a fixed point in his life, one of the few certainties, as sure to him as his arrows and bow. 

He stares at her and remembers when he first saw her. He had tracked her to Prague where she had been sent to kill an influential Czech general. The afternoon before the assassination, Clint had found her by chance in Old Town Square. She was staring at something, Clint couldn’t see what, his view blocked by milling tourists. Easing closer, he peered through the crowd, and then he saw. She had stopped before a young girl who danced to a slow tune that an older man, most likely her father, played on a violin. 

He remembers the emotion in her eyes shocking him. The infamous Black Widow, the cool seductress who had enticed the daughter of Anton Drakov, a defecting Russian agent, into revealing her father’s location, an action that led to the girl’s suicide three months later; the killer who had set fire to a hospital in Mongolia in order to smoke out her prey, regardless of the others inside, now stared at the girl before her, exhaustion heavy in her face. She had reached into her bag with a shaking hand and pulled out a thick wad of koruna before dropping them into the basket that lay in front of the girl. Then she turned and walked away, her eyes once more aloof and controlled.

It was then that Clint had decided to save her.

He wonders now what Natasha had seen within Loki to cause her to make the same choice for him. Clint had asked her about it upon her return from India, but she had merely looked at him and said that everybody deserved a second chance. Clint couldn’t believe Natasha, couldn’t believe that the monster that had seized control of him and laid waste to New York wanted to atone, yet he couldn’t doubt Natasha either, couldn’t believe that she would succumb so blindly to sympathy and the past. 

So he watched. He watched her follow Loki to Italy, then follow him to Switzerland; he watched as she was kidnapped and tortured, Clint too far away to help her, to save her.

He straightens now and reaches for her hand. A spot of blood dots the bandage that holds the IV; her ragged nails rest against the blanket. She is his friend, his partner, the closest thing to family that he has, and he loves her. He knows that she cares for him, but Clint doesn’t know if that emotion is love or gratitude, Natasha still a tough nut to crack after all this time. 

He hears the door slide open behind him, and he lets go of Natasha’s hand. Turning, he sees Fury walk in, his eye red with exhaustion.

“How is she?” Fury asks, coming to a stop behind Clint.

Clint turns back to Natasha. “The same.”

They watch Natasha, the gentle hum of the machines the only sound in the silence. A minute passes, and then Fury says, “The others found Loki and Doom. Doom rabbited, but Rogers said that he looked to be in bad shape.”

Clint nods. He draws in a deep breath and releases it, striving for calm. “And him?” he asks.

“He’s alive. Been burnt pretty bad though. And he bled all over the bird that brought him here.”

At that, Clint turns. “He’s here?”

“Down the hall. I don’t know what the hell kind of treatment he’ll need being that he’s from an entirely different planet, but Thor asked for help, so there you go.” Fury pauses. He watches Clint for a moment and then says, “I wanted to let you know so it wouldn’t come as a shock to you. So you wouldn’t react in any unexpected way.”

Fury stares at him. Clint grits his teeth and turns away. A few seconds go by, and then Fury says, “We all know how you feel about the guy. I’m not going to have to put you on lockdown, am I?”

Clint watches the blip of the heartbeat on the machine next to Natasha. 

“Agent Barton?”

“No,” he says without turning around. “If he dies on the boat, it won’t be my fault.”

“Good to know,” Fury says. Clint hears him turn away. The door slides open and he says, “You should get some sleep. At least while she is. She’ll need you more when she’s awake.”

Again, Clint watches the blip of the heartbeat on the machine next to Natasha, the steady rise and fall of life within her. “No,” he says again. “I’m fine here.”

Fury hesitates before saying, “Okay.” The door closes softly behind him as he leaves.

Clint leans forward and lays his hand on top of Natasha’s again. He’ll tell her when she’s well. He’ll tell her how he feels. At least she’ll know, and maybe she’ll feel the same in return. 

For that, Clint can hope.

*


	16. Family Ties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Loki wakes, he tastes ash, and he fears that he has fallen again into the Void. But then he hears someone call his name, and he opens his eyes.

When Loki wakes, he tastes ash, and he fears that he has fallen again into the Void. But then he hears someone call his name, and he opens his eyes.

He lies on a bed in a room he does not recognize. To his right, he sees a small table with a glass of water and a plant, and then he sees a wall of windows beyond, showing tall buildings from a Midgardian city; Loki thinks it is New York. Another table rests at the end of the bed; it holds his armor, newly polished. Last, to his left, Thor sits in a chair and watches him closely, anxiety tightening his face.

“How do you feel?” Thor asks, leaning forward.

Loki groans as he tries to sit. His hands and face feel sore, the skin rippled where it had burned, and his left arm feels stiff. The cool air that he breathes stings his lungs. “I feel like I fell three hundred feet and almost burned to death,” he says, easing back against the headboard of the bed. 

“That is because you almost did,” Thor says. 

Loki sees relief smooth the tension in his face as Thor settles back in the chair. He continues to stare, and Loki feels the urge slice into that concern, the worry overwhelming. Instead, he looks away and stares down at the grey blanket covering his legs; he wears a white shirt and black pants, not his own. “Where am I?” he asks.

“In the Iron Man’s building,” Thor says. “You have not been conscious for two days. I feared—” He stops, hesitating, glancing at Loki. Then he says, “The Lady Pepper gifted you with a plant. And the Captain and I burnished your armor…” He trails off. Loki eyes the plant and the armor, but stays silent. After another pause, Thor says, “Natasha is also well. She still sleeps, but she is here and will recover soon from her injuries, of this I am sure.”

Loki nods again. He keeps his face calm and continues to gaze around the room. The last thing that he wants to do right now is converse with his brother about Natasha. He reaches for the glass of water beside him, and his eyes fall shut as the cool liquid slides down his dry throat. 

“I am aware of what you have done for her,” Thor says quietly in the silence. 

Loki’s hand tightens on the glass. He drinks the rest of the water, and he feels Thor watching him, feels his desire to know and talk and be as brothers once again. Opening his eyes, Loki leans over and lays the glass back on the table. Then he says, “I should freeze Heimdall again to spare us all from his incessant prying.”

“Because of you, she lives,” Thor says, relentless. “I—”

“What happened to Doom?” Loki asks, still staring at the glass. 

Thor does not respond. After a moment, Loki looks at him and raises a brow. Thor holds his gaze, sighs, and then says, “He fled. The Iron Man gave chase, but he was… affected by the Bifrost and was unable to follow successfully.”

“Affected?”

“Yes. It seems that humans find the Bifrost… distressing.” Thor starts to smile as he explains the intestinal discomfort suffered by Stark, the Captain, and even the beast during their trip to and from Asgard. Loki feels his mouth twitch. Seeing the expression, Thor pounces. “I am sure that Natasha will be able to withstand the journey heartily once she is well,” he says.

Glaring now, Loki turns away from Thor. “For what reason would she travel to Asgard?” he asks, slumping down in the bed.

“To see you,” he says. “You have bestowed upon her the rune—”

Loki cuts him off again. “I am not returning to Asgard.”

Silence follows his admission. He hears Thor shift in the chair, and then his brother says quietly, “But it is your home.”

A sigh rises within Loki, but he clamps down on it and instead closes his eyes. “No,” he says. “It isn’t. It cannot be.”

“Why?”

Loki does not respond; he contemplates whether he has the energy to teleport away. 

“Why?” Thor asks again. “Brother, please do not shut me out.”

The candor of the appeal discomforts Loki. Always, always, Thor pleads for him to return, and always, always, he must decline.

_He’s a fool_ , he had said.

_He’s your family_ , she replied. _And you should be thankful for it._

Sighing now, Loki opens his eyes and looks at Thor. “It cannot be my home because Asgard is tainted for me, and I am tainted for it.”

“Tainted?” Thor frowns. “How?”

Loki sighs again. He stares at the bare white walls of the room in Stark’s building, and he recalls the gilded splendor of Odin’s palace, the majesty of the Rainbow Bridge. He remembers the statues and the feasts and how you felt as though you could step off the edge of the world into the boundless expanse of stars beneath. Then he says, “Asgard is a glorious dream. It is a wondrous lie. I look into its golden halls, and I see myself reflected there. I see the bastard son of Laufey. And I see all that I have done taint its majesty. But I also see the falsehood in its beating heart, the cruelty in the All-Father, who stole a child to secure peace when he could not.” Loki pauses and shakes his head. “Asgard is lost to me,” he continues. “I cannot return there.” 

“What about I?” Thor asks, insistent. “Am I lost to you as well? You are my brother, but what am I to you? Am I brother? Am I foe?”

Loki looks away. He stares at the plant, silent.

“Loki? Loki—”

“Why do you care?” he asks now, sitting up to glare at Thor. “I sought your death three times, and yet here you are, demanding of me my regard for you. Are you disturbed? Why do you not hate me for what I’ve done?”

Thor holds his gaze, but Loki sees no malice, no vexation on his face. Leaning forward, he says softly, “Because you hate yourself. No man should suffer more than that.”

_You hate yourself. You can’t even look at yourself in your true form._

_But you can?_

_Yes._

Loki turns from Thor. He tries to repel the memory of Natasha at the church, insisting that he kill her or change, demanding more of him and from him than anyone else save Thor. In his efforts, his eyes fall upon his armor.

_Because the power, all of it, none of it matters if you’re alone, if no one knows who you really are._

_And no one knows you like family._

The Captain had shared his life with Loki, had repaired his broken armor. Natasha had revealed her past to him, had fought beside him, had fought for him in Switzerland. Thor had appealed to him, had followed him; he sits with him now. He cares for him now. Even now. 

_You’re afraid_ , she had said. 

_You’re afraid to change._

Loki swallows. He glances at Thor, looks away, and then returns his gaze to his brother. Drawing in a deep breath, he says, “You are… Thor.” 

Thor smiles at that. “I am Thor,” he says. 

“Yes.”

Loki sees a gleam in Thor’s eyes, so often seen so long ago, before Jotunheim, before the Void, a gleam of warmth and merriment. “And you are Loki,” he says.

Loki feels his mouth twitch. “Yes,” he says. “You are Thor, and I am Loki.”

“Excellent,” Thor says as he stands. He claps a hand on Loki’s shoulder and says, “As a beginning, this is sufficient. But for now, come. I will take you to Natasha. We will see if she is awake.”

*

When Natasha wakes, she smells antiseptic and hears the soft chirp of medical machines. She feels a warm hand on her arm and the numbness of drugs in her left hand. A cool pillow lies beneath her head. She feels that she is safe, but she cannot open her eyes, fearing the security a delusion produced by Doom. But then someone calls her name, and the voice does not belong to Doom, so she opens her eyes.

She lies on a bed in a room she does not recognize. To her right, she sees a small table with a glass of water and a plant and then, beyond, a wall of windows through which she can see the skyline of Manhattan. Another table rests at the foot of the bed; upon it, she sees Sudoku books and a Stark tablet, a box of green tea and a hand-drawn ‘Get Well Soon’ card. She sees her guns, secure in their holsters. And last, to her left, she sees Clint, asleep in the chair, his face rumpled with fatigue, his hand resting on her arm.

Natasha draws in a breath.

She is safe. 

Her face flushes. She wills herself not to cry. 

She is safe. She is safe. 

Easing her arm from beneath Clint’s hand, Natasha presses her right hand to her eyes; she tries to steady her nerves, breathing in again.

“Ms. Romanov?”

Jarvis. Again. It was he who had spoken before.

Natasha tilts her head toward the speaker beside her pillow. “Yes?” she says. Her voice is no more than a cracked whisper.

Equally as soft, Jarvis says, “I have been instructed by Mr. Stark to be at your disposal while you are here. Is there anything that you require?”

Natasha releases another slow breath and opens her eyes. Fresh bandages cover the cuts on her body; a blue cast encases her left hand. “How… how did I…?”

“How did you arrive here?” he asks.

“Yes.”

Tone mild and decorous, Jarvis informs her of the past few days. She closes her eyes as she listens to the narrative of her rescue, of Loki’s disappearance and the team’s journey to Asgard to find him, of the fight in Switzerland and Doom’s escape and the transfer of both she and Loki here to recover. When Jarvis finishes, Natasha opens her eyes and finds Clint awake, watching her from the chair.

“Thanks, Jarvis,” she says, her gaze on Clint.

“My pleasure, Ms. Romanov.” Jarvis again requests for her to contact him if she needs anything, and then the speaker goes silent and she is alone with Clint.

The last time she had seen him, before she had left for Italy, they had fought; the last time she had spoken to him, before she had gone to the soirée, they had fought. But now she sees only relief in his eyes, relief and the love that she knows is there but that he has yet to express. 

“Hey,” he says, leaning forward. “How do you feel?”

Natasha looks down at her bandages and her cast, at her muscles stiff beneath the blanket, and then she quirks a brow. At that, a smile appears on Clint’s face, brightening the sleepless shadows. “Right,” he says. “Stupid question.”

She nods and then turns her eyes to the items at the end of the bed. Clint stands and starts to push the table within her reach. “The only good thing about a stay in medical,” he says, bringing the table to a stop next to her, “is all the stuff that people give you.” He winks and sits down beside her, his eyes roaming over the gifts. He points to the plant first and says, “From Pepper. I tried to tell her how abominable you are at keeping plants alive, but she insisted. The Sudoku books are from me, of course. I may have done a few already. The tablet is from Stark, but he looked entirely too pleased with himself when he brought it in, so use it cautiously. The green tea is from Bruce. The guns, of course, from Fury. And this,” he says, holding up the card, “is from Steve.”

Clint hands her the card. On the front, Natasha sees a drawing of herself, her guns in hand and a host of Doom’s robots in pieces at her feet. “He drew this?” she asks, looking down at the card. 

“Yeah,” Clint says. “I don’t think anybody knew the guy could draw until he came in yesterday with it for all of us to sign.”

Opening the card, Natasha sees the entire left side taken up by an enormous signature, the first letter as colorful and intricate as those in medieval books: Thor. On the right side, she sees the rest, Fury and Maria, Tony and Pepper, Bruce, Steve, and at the top, of course, Clint.

Natasha stares at the card and breathes in. She remembers telling Loki that not all were as fortunate as he to have family. Perhaps she was wrong.

She looks at Clint now and finds him watching her. He starts to smile and then shakes his head before starting to smile again. As she looks at him, Natasha knows that she cares for him. He is her friend, her partner, and her savior. He is her family. Someday she’ll tell him, and she hopes that he will understand. 

She hears a knock at the door and looks past Clint to see the door open and Thor stick his head in. He smiles when he sees her. “Excellent,” he says. “You are awake. May we come in?”

At the sound of ‘we,’ Natasha stills. At her stillness, Clint stands and moves next to the window, and she glances at him to find that the smile has vanished from his face. Withholding her sigh, she looks back at Thor and nods, and he pushes the door the rest of the way before striding into the room. 

No one follows him.

Natasha holds up the card as Thor approaches. He laughs as he sees his signature. “Perhaps not what the Captain had intended when he conferred this upon me to sign,” he says. “But one should never affix one’s name to anything lightly.” He takes the card from her outstretched hand and closes it to examine Steve’s drawing. “Loki,” he says over his shoulder, “you have yet to see what the Captain has created for Natasha.”

She looks beyond Thor, and then Loki is there. He leans in the doorway, his arms folded across his chest and his eyes on her. The fire has burned his hair short and marred the skin on his hands and face. She bites her lip, clamps down on the relief within her, and raises a brow at him. He glances at his hands, looks back at her, and shrugs; then he raises a brow at her, and she looks down at her cast, back at him, and then shrugs in return. The corners of his mouth curve up into a smile, and she feels one tug at her lips as well.

“Yeah, okay, I’m going now,” Clint says. He pushes away from the window and moves past the bed without looking at her.

“Clint.”

He stops, but still doesn’t look at her. “Stark gave me a room,” he says, and Natasha hates the edge that sharpens his voice. “So I’ll be here if you need anything.”

“Okay,” she says. He continues on, pausing at the door to glare at Loki. After a moment, Loki unfolds his arms and eases back just enough to let Clint pass. They scowl at each other as Clint leaves. 

Natasha closes her eyes and sighs. She feels a warm hand on her arm, and she opens her eyes to find Thor looking at her, his face grave. “Do not despair,” he says. “This strain will pass. We will find a way to repair the bond with him, and he will embrace us once more as comrades.”

Natasha nods, and Thor returns the card to her. He holds her hand for a moment and then he says quietly, “And I will find a way to repay you for all that you have done for Loki.”

She cannot help it. Her gaze flits to Loki before returning to Thor. “You don’t—” she says.

“I do, Natasha. I am in your debt.”

_You spared my life. I am in your debt._

_That is not something that I carry lightly._

Thor rises now and smiles. “I must leave as well,” he says, his voice booming once more around the room. “I asked the Captain to escort Sif around this fair city, and I must see if they have returned.” He turns from the bed and walks to the door, where he grins at Loki. Loki rolls his eyes, and then Thor leaves, and she and Loki are alone.

Natasha watches him enter the room. He shuts the door behind him, and she places the card on the table. As he moves closer to the bed, she reaches for the glass beside her; the water is cool, a balm to her aching throat. Loki sits on the bed; Natasha returns the glass to the table. He watches her, and she looks back at him. 

He is alive. She is alive. They are both alive.

Natasha feels her face flush again, and she lifts a hand, pressing it against her eyes. She hears him move, and then Loki draws her hand away, laying it next to his own. Looking at him, she sees the same sentiment within him, the same relief, and she says, “Thank you. For coming for me.”

“A gift should be repaid with one in kind,” he says. He looks down at the blanket. “You saved me,” he says. He smoothes the blue cotton beside her leg. When he returns his eyes to hers, she cannot breathe. “In every way.”

She remembers the feel of his fingers in her hair, the way he had looked at her as he whispered something, something, before teleporting away. She remembers his hand in hers as they danced.

Natasha moves, drawing him in to sit beside her. When he eases down, she leans into him. Loki wraps one arm around her, and she lays her head on his chest. She hears his heartbeat steady in her ear and she feels her own in her chest. 

He is alive. She is alive. They are both alive. 

*


	17. Autumn in New York

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve shakes his head at that and almost laughs. Him, a regular kid from Brooklyn, and a goddess from Asgard, going on a tour of the city. Marvels of Tomorrow, indeed.

At the entrance to Stark Tower, Steve waits for Sif and remembers. Though seventy years have come and gone in the world, for him it seems only a year since he followed Bucky to the Marvels of Tomorrow exhibition. Since then, since that fateful meeting with Dr. Erskine, Steve became a soldier and fought against Nazis, he found love and lost his best friend, and then he lost everything, only to be thrust back into the world with aliens and gods and men who became hulks. 

And now he was about to give a tour of New York City to a warrior from another planet.

Steve shakes his head at that and almost laughs. Him, a regular kid from Brooklyn, and a goddess from Asgard, going on a tour of the city. 

Marvels of Tomorrow, indeed.

The door opens behind him, and Steve turns to find Sif striding toward him. Her hair is down, pulled back by a gold barrette on one side of her face, and she wears jeans and boots, a green blouse and a brown leather jacket. Steve blinks and then coughs and then looks away in order not to stare, but Sif stops when she sees his expression and glances down at her clothes, a small frown on her face.

“Is this not acceptable?” she asks. “The Lady Pepper said these would—”

“No,” Steve says, the word so loud he makes her start. Feeling a blush start to creep up his neck, he says, “You, ah, you look… very nice— great, I mean. You look great.”

Sif eyes him, uncertainty on her face; Steve coughs again and tries to smile. A beat passes and then she nods and closes the distance between them. “I thank you,” she says, “for devoting yourself to me this day. I feel as a burden upon Thor, his focus so intent on Loki healing.”

Steve shakes his head. “It’s no trouble,” he says. “I’m glad to be of help. I just hope you’re not too disappointed with the city. I didn’t see much of Asgard, but what I did see was definitely… something.”

At that, Sif smiles. “True,” she says, “but every realm has its own wonders. I am grateful for the chance to discover some of Midgard’s.”

“Good,” Steve says. “Good. Good.” He blinks and tries to think of another word aside from good. For a moment, he can’t, but then his eyes fall upon his motorcycle and he nearly sighs in relief. “I guess we should get started,” he says, extending an arm toward the bike. Sif does not move; she looks from the motorcycle to Steve and raises a brow. Steve feels himself flush again under her gaze. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I thought— Would you rather walk?”

“No. No, I—” Sif hesitates, and a faint blush appears on her cheeks. “This is transportation?” she asks, glancing back at the motorcycle.

“What?” he says, blinking at her, and then, “Oh. Oh.” Sif looks away, the blush deepening. Steve starts forward and says, “I’m sorry. I just— I’ve gotten used to everyone knowing more than me about the world, so I didn’t think— Even if you are from another planet—” He stops and shakes his head, a wry grin appearing on his face. Steve Rogers, expert of Earthly culture. Who would have thought?

Sif watches him carefully, amusement beginning to brighten her eyes. Moving toward the bike, Steve says, “Yes. This is transportation. It’s my motorcycle. I built it over the summer.”

Now Sif looks at the motorcycle with interest. “You constructed this?”

“Not the parts,” Steve says. “I bought the parts. I just put them together.” Another smile appears on his face as he remembers. “I had been saving up to buy my first part when… when my life changed,” he says, glancing at Sif. “So when some down time came after, well, after Loki, I decided to start again. I finished it a couple of weeks ago.”

Steve stares down at the motorcycle. Constructing it had given him something to focus on the past few months instead of the losses in his life or the tension in his present. Tony had provided him workspace, strangely without comment, and whenever the strain caused by the reappearance of Loki or the latest mission became too much within S.H.I.E.L.D., Steve had retreated and he had built.

Looking now at Sif, he says, “But if you’re still anxious about riding it, we can—”

“No,” she says. “It cannot be more dangerous than riding a Bilgesnipe. But if it is…” She pauses and peers at him, a mischievous glint appearing in her eyes. “…then so much the better.”

Steve stares at her for a moment and then swallows. “Well, okay,” he says, handing her the extra helmet that Pepper had given to him. He straps on his own helmet and then climbs onto the bike. He feels the motorcycle shift as Sif slides on behind him. “You might want to hold on,” he says over his shoulder as he starts the motorcycle. At the rumble of the engine, she wraps her arms around his waist, and Steve closes his eyes at the feel of her against him. 

Then he revs the engine and they start down the street.

*

They drive south past the Museum of Modern Art, Rockefeller Center, and the Empire State Building and then Steve turns toward the East River. Merging onto FDR Drive, he takes them south past the Lower East Side and the Brooklyn Bridge before exiting for Battery Park. 

Pulling into a parking space, Steve cuts the engine and looks back at Sif. “Well?” he says. “What do you think?”

Her eyes shine as they gaze back at the city. “This city, it hums.”

Steve suppresses a smile as he climbs off the bike. “I’m pretty sure that was the motorcycle.”

Sif shakes her head. “No. This city breathes. The people, there are so many, and they all move and walk and converse. They live. The air vibrates from them. In Asgard, save for times of war, all is serene. Especially if you are a woman.” She pauses now and looks away before sliding off the motorcycle. “Perhaps that is why I craved battle,” she says, removing her helmet. 

Steve stills at that. “Do you enjoy war?” he asks, careful to keep his tone even.

Sif places her helmet on the motorcycle. She looks at Steve and then toward the city. Removing his own helmet, Steve waits for her response. Her face is somber as she says, “I enjoy the freedom to run and to feel life within me. War provides this. The path for women in Asgard leads to neither, merely a life of ceaseless serenity.” She returns her gaze to him. For an instant, anger flares in her eyes and then she says, “You would not understand.”

“Why not?”

“You are a man,” she says simply. “Thor told us about you upon his return. You lead the most extraordinary beings on Midgard, and your colleagues hold you in the highest esteem. But even now, after so many years, there are still those in Asgard that doubt my ability.”

Steve places his helmet on the motorcycle and eyes Sif with curiosity. “Thor told you about me?”

“Yes.”

“What else did he say?”

Sif hesitates. The faint blush appears again on her cheeks, but she stands tall and looks straight at him as she says, “That you were the most honorable man that he knew, one worthy of Mjolnir.”

Steve blinks. “Oh. I… I, uh, I meant about my past, where I come from.” 

Sif shakes her head. 

Steve regards her a moment and then he inclines his head toward Battery Park. “Are you hungry?” 

Her eyes narrow at the change in conversation, but a small smile curves the corners of her lips. “Yes,” she says.

Grabbing both helmets, Steve strides around the motorcycle toward her. “There’s a cart in the park,” he says, “that sells the best hot dogs in New York. Let me buy you lunch, and I’ll tell you about this punk kid from Brooklyn that everybody in the world doubted.”

Sif watches him approach. She assesses him carefully, and Steve wonders what she thinks, but before he can ask, before he can contemplate the possibilities, she nods and he leads them in the direction of the cart and to the memories of his past.

*

Thirty minutes later, they sit on a bench facing the distant Statue of Liberty, six unwrapped hot dogs between them, four for Steve and two for Sif. Then, for the second time in almost as many days, Steve delves into the twists and turns of his past. Sif listens with avid interest as they eat, a sharp contrast to the wary suspicion that Steve had received from Loki on the Carrier, but within both Sif and Loki, Steve sees the same longing and loneliness that he feels within himself. 

_How desperate are you that you would call upon such lost creatures to defend you?_

Loki had been right. They were lost, all of them, Steve and Loki, Sif and Natasha, Tony, Bruce, and Clint. Out of all of them, only Thor perhaps knew himself and his place in the world with any certainty. Maybe Pepper, too. But the rest were out of time or out of place or alone, just alone, boats with no port, with no home or family. 

_Because the power, all of it_ , he had said, _none of it matters if you’re alone, if no one knows who you really are._

_And no one knows you like family._

For so long, only Bucky had been his family. But then Steve had met Dr. Erskine and Peggy and Colonel Phillips and the rest of the Commandos, and he felt that he had found his place in the world, only to have fate snatch it away.

He looks at Sif now. If Steve could not have Bucky, if he could not have Peggy, then he would have them, the Avengers, and maybe Loki, too, and Sif. They would be his family, his port in this world that was still so strange, and he would be theirs, as constant and accepting for them as Bucky and Peggy had been for him. 

When he finishes his remembrance, Sif looks at him quietly. Then she says, “Thor spoke truly about you.”

Steve shifts on the bench and looks out across the bay. “Well, I don’t know about that,” he says. “But the rest of the team is extraordinary. Especially Natasha. When we get back, we’ll have to see if she’s awake so you can meet her, too.”

“I would honor the opportunity,” Sif says. She glances down at her hands and then out toward the water. “I must confess,” she says, “I came to Midgard in part to meet her, to meet this woman who has wrought such a change within Loki.” She hesitates, peering at Steve, and then she asks, “What is she like? Thor only spoke of her prowess in battle. He revealed little else.”

Steve contemplates how best to describe Natasha. He had read the file on her that Fury had given to him, along with information about the rest of the Avengers, before he met her; he had fought beside her in New York and had trained with her since then, but he could speak of her no more effectively than he could describe the inner workings of Tony’s Arc Reactor. 

Drawing in a breath, he says, “I guess she’s kind of like an iceberg. She doesn’t let a whole lot through most of the time. Some people at S.H.I.E.L.D. think that’s because she doesn’t feel anything, but she does. She just doesn’t trust very easily.” 

“Does she trust Loki?”

Steve thinks back to their conversation about Doom’s soirée, her request for them to find Loki after he teleported from Latveria. “I think so,” he says. 

Sif looks at him. “Do you?” 

Steve meets her gaze; her expression is frank and pensive. Turning back to the bay, he considers the question. He remembers the postcards that Loki had sent to Natasha and how Loki had paced the cage as he waited for them to take action against Doom. He remembers Sif and the look in her eyes as she told him about the Helm of Awe. He remembers the fire that consumed Loki as he crouched above Doom in Switzerland.

_Few conjure the rune, save for family or those… for those…_

_Those in love?_

Returning his gaze to Sif, Steve nods. “For now, at least. Hopefully for later, too. I think he’s found something here, and he wants that more than he wants to destroy it.”

Sif is silent as she ponders his statement. Steve starts to gather the empty hot dog wrappers so he doesn’t stare at her. A minute passes before she speaks. “I hope for your sake,” she says, “and for Thor’s, that you are correct. I do not think that Thor will easily withstand another betrayal from Loki.”

Crumpling the wrappers into a ball, Steve says, “Probably not. But if it happens, at least he won’t be alone. Not here or on Asgard.”

Sif studies him again. “No,” she says. “He will not be.” She watches him for a moment longer, and Steve finds himself unable to discern her thoughts. He remembers Peggy’s claim of him knowing nothing about women. He still doesn’t, his only repeated exposure to women since then to Maria and Natasha, two of the most terse and complicated individuals that Steve has met. But he wants to know Sif, he wants to know how she overcame her fate to fight alongside Thor. He wants to know how she feels about Asgard and Earth and him.

Especially him.

But he stands now and says, “We should probably get back before traffic gets too heavy. Maybe Natasha will be awake and we can stop in.”

Sif nods and stands, retrieving their helmets from the ground beside her. Steve throws the wrappers into a nearby trashcan and then accepts the helmet that Sif passes to him. As they head for the exit to the park, she says, “Perhaps tomorrow you would consent to show me more of the city.”

Steve looks at her. She smiles at him, her eyes sparkling in the sunlight, and he feels a smile tug at his own lips. “I would like that,” he says.

They reach the motorcycle. Easing on his helmet, Steve climbs onto the bike, and he feels Sif do the same. He feels strength within her, in her legs as they press against the back of his own, in her hands as she slides her arms around his waist. He starts the motorcycle, and he feels her tense in anticipation. 

Then he revs the engine, and they start once more down the street.

*

Back at Stark Tower, Steve knocks on the door to Natasha’s room. He hears nothing and glances once at Sif before opening the door and peering cautiously inside. Steve finds both Loki and Natasha asleep on her bed, her head on his chest. The sight stills him. The last time that he had seen them they were broken and bleeding in the Carrier, but now they heal and they heal together.

Closing the door, Steve turns to Sif, but before he can inform her of the postponement, he sees Thor striding down the hall toward them. The look on his face is grave. Steve moves down the hall to meet him, and he hears Sif follow.

“Captain,” Thor says when he is close, “I require your council. Loki has informed me that he does not desire to return to Asgard. Yet this endeavor to save him from the sorcerer Doom rested upon him returning.”

Steve glances at Sif and then back at the door to Natasha’s room. They had been lost, all of them, but they had found each other; across time and space and the irredeemable sins of their pasts, they had all found each other.

Steve was not going to let them suffer any more loss. 

Turning back to Thor, he says, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to Director Fury. Make him see reason.” Thor looks at him, anxiety and relief on his face. Then he nods. Steve turns to Sif, and she nods at him as well, the pensive look back in her eyes. He holds her gaze, wondering again what she thinks about this, about Loki and the team, about him, but there would be time for questions later. Now he needed to talk to Fury. Looking once more at Thor, Steve starts down the hall for the elevator. 

*


	18. The Convergence of Twain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sunlight shines upon Loki's face, brightening the blue of his eyes. She wants to touch him; she wants to poke him with her hand to make sure that he is real, this moment too light, too warm for people like them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the Thomas Hardy poem of the same name.

Midmorning light shines through the window. In her bed, Natasha sits beside Loki. The med team supervising her care had shooed him out of her room the previous evening at nine and only allowed visitors to return in the past hour, after she ate breakfast and completed light exercise to stretch and heal her body. Upon finishing, they had ordered her back to bed, and she acquiesced, scowling until her eyes fell upon the pile of Sudoku books.

Loki had found her fifteen minutes later, cursing her left hand in Russian for being unable to properly hold open the book. Now, she stares at the book that he holds, examining the tiny grids and searching for the pattern. 

“And this is something that Midgardians do for fun?” he asks, looking at the small boxes with a raised brow.

Natasha shrugs. “Some do. Others do it as practice. You have to find the pattern of numbers.” She taps the eraser of her pencil against her cast as her eyes move from box to box, from number to number. “It helps with breaking codes, computer hacking, things like that.”

Loki turns to her now, amusement clear in his eyes. “So this is official S.H.I.E.L.D. training? Successfully saving the world through numbers in boxes?” 

She feels a smile hover at the corners of her mouth. “No. But Clint has tried a couple of times to get an official S.H.I.E.L.D. tournament started, but nobody will play in it.”

“Why not?”

Natasha smiles now. “Because I always win.” 

Loki laughs. “Oh, I don’t doubt that,” he says. He looks at her and then he bends his head close. Only a few spots of scar tissue mar his face now, the rest having healed overnight. His hair, though, remains short. Natasha resists the urge to touch the ragged ends. “Then again,” he says, his voice a low murmur in her ear, “you’ve never played against me.” At that, Loki looks at the book, and she follows his gaze to find all of the boxes on the page before her filled in.

“Hey,” she says. She snatches the book from him and flips through the pages. He had filled in every square on every page with tiny, ornate numbers. Natasha grabs the second book and the third from the nearby table. Loki laughs as she finds the same in these, every square, every box complete. She turns to him and tries to glare, but he grins at her and she shakes her head and sighs.

“What am I supposed to do now?” she asks, slumping down next to him. “The med team won’t take me off bed rest until tomorrow.”

Loki arches a brow. “And you were planning to do Sudoku for the rest of the day?”

“There really isn’t much else to do when you’re stuck in this room.” Natasha eyes the bare white walls, the tablet from Tony that she hesitates to use for fear of unfiltered exposure to his twisted sense of humor. 

“So we’ll go someplace else,” Loki says with a shrug.

Now she arches a brow at him. “You did hear the part about bed rest, right?”

“Yes,” he says, “I did.” He eases down next to her until their eyes are on level. The sunlight shines upon his face, brightening the blue of his eyes. She wants to touch him; she wants to poke him with her hand to make sure that he is real, this moment too light, too warm for people like them. But she restrains herself and just looks at him as he says, “I do happen to be quite skilled with illusions, though, so while you may remain in bed, you need not remain in this room. All you have to do is tell me where.” 

“Anywhere?” she asks.

“Anywhere I’ve been.”

Tilting her head, Natasha regards the blank walls, a canvas waiting to be filled at her request. Asgard is her first impulse, her curiosity about the world piqued during their tour of the Doge’s Palace, but she hesitates, unsure of his willingness to return to the realm, even in a mirage. Instead, she turns back to him and says, “Surprise me.”

Silence follows her request. His gaze, usually so expressive, now she cannot read. Natasha feels her heart pound at the intensity of his stare. “Close your eyes,” he says.

Natasha closes her eyes. Her skin tingles where Loki had whispered the incantation days before. His hand glides over hers, and she feels, she feels so much, and then he says, “Open your eyes.” 

Natasha does, and all she sees is stars. Dark space cradles galaxies that shimmer and glow, that shine light from the very beginnings of the worlds upon them as they float in the midst. From the dusk, Loki says, “Asgard floats through space on a flat plane. Sometimes I find it strange that the eternal realm ends while yours, so vulnerable to time, persists in an unending sphere. Yet the topography of Asgard allows for this, the view from the edge of the world.” 

He pauses; his fingers drift over the knuckles of her right hand. He says, “It is custom in Asgard for children to dare one another to approach the boundary. If you have the skill, you can navigate the edge and walk to the other side.”

“Let me guess,” she says. “You dared Thor to walk to the other side when you two were kids.”

He smirks. “Actually, it was Volstagg, one of Thor’s followers. I was merely a bystander, curious as to the outcome.” Loki looks at her and smiles at the memory. “Of course, he did it. Thor would never pass on an opportunity to prove his valor, especially not before an audience.”

“So what happened?”

The smile fades. “He lost his footing in the crossover and fell. He would have drifted into space if I hadn’t teleported him back to ground.” Loki pauses now and gazes at the stars; she sees them reflected in his eyes; she sees the weight of time there. A faint smile appears again, and he turns to her and says, “It was the first time I had done it, so, unfortunately, we landed on the other side. We had to wait for hours on this rocky little spit of land for the others to return to the palace and alert Odin to what had happened. Needless to say, he was displeased.”

Natasha looks at the stars, imagining the scene, imagining the companionship of friends, of family, the concern of a parent. The Academy had contained no such things. She remembers moments of levity stolen in scraps, the occasional glance of commiseration, but friends did not exist in the Red Room. They were assassins; they were spies; they killed, they did not love.

“Natasha…”

She drops her gaze to Loki and finds him watching her, his brows drawn together. She looks away and shrugs. “It’s nothing,” she says. “It’s just… Our childhoods were very different.”

“What—?”

He stops as the door opens. In the light from the hall, Natasha sees Clint walk in and pause, his eyes wide at the mirage of stars. “Unexpected,” he says.

The stars vanish, midmorning light returns to the room, and then Clint sees them. He looks at Natasha and then at Loki, and his jaw clenches. “I didn’t realize you had company,” he says.

“Clint—”

“I’ll come back later.” He turns, not looking at her, and before she can respond, he has left the room, the door slamming behind him. 

Natasha sighs.

_This strain will pass._

_We will find a way to repair the bond with him, and he will embrace us once more as comrades._

Sitting, she eases her legs off the bed and slips on her shoes. As she starts to stand, Loki says, “I thought you were supposed to be on bed rest.” 

“I am,” she says. “But this is important.”

“More important than your health?” 

His words are clipped. Natasha looks at him; he returns her stare, unwilling to relent. “Yes,” she says. “It is. But you should know this already. It wasn’t exactly balmy weather when I followed you to that church.”

The expression on his face softens. “Natasha—”

“I just… I have to talk to him,” she says as she walks to the door. She can feel Loki watching her. Turning, she meets his stare, but, again, she cannot read the look in his eyes. “I’ll be back,” she says, but he is silent. She stares at him a moment longer and then turns and leaves the room, beginning her search in the empty hall. 

*

She finds Clint where she always does, perched on high. He sits at the edge of the roof of Stark Tower, staring down at the reconstructed city streets below. She sees a bottle of whiskey in his hands. Perhaps he stole it from Tony on his way up; perhaps he brought it with him from the Carrier when they transferred her here. Shivering in the crisp October air, Natasha crosses the roof and eases down beside him.

He looks at her sidelong and takes a drink from the bottle. Then he shakes his head and says, “So. Loki.”

Natasha stays silent and waits for him to continue.

Clint looks away from her, out across Manhattan. He rubs a hand across his leg and plucks the seam in the fabric. Then he says, “I always knew it would be somebody. Someday. I just— I thought maybe—” He stops and glances at her again. “Couldn’t you have chosen Steve or Bruce or— or somebody else but him?” 

“I don’t think it’s a choice,” she says. 

A rueful grin appears on his face. “You love who you love,” he says, shaking his head. Clint takes another drink, and then, staring down at the bottle, he says quietly, “Do you love him?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you care for him?”

Natasha wishes she could lie. Lies come so easy, but the truth, never. But Clint deserves the truth as he deserves so much for all that he has done for her. “Yes.”

Now Clint looks at her again, and the emotion in his eyes overwhelms her. “Why?” he asks. “Why him? Why not— why not me?”

Natasha feels her face start to flush, but she does not look away. She takes a moment and breathes in the cool air, and she tries to find words for what she herself has only begun to understand. “Do you know,” she says, “that you were the first man who looked at me and didn’t see something that he could play with. Or hurt. You didn’t see a weapon. When you found me in Prague, when you looked at me that first time, you saw a person.”

“Then why…?” he asks.

Natasha looks at him and again wishes she could lie. “Because you see a good person,” she says.

Clint stills at that. “Natasha…” 

She sees so much, so much concern, on his face that she has to turn away. “I can’t be, Clint. I’ve done too much. I can do good. Now. But I can’t be good. And you say it’s because of the Red Room, but it’s not. It wasn’t. Not all of it.” Natasha pauses, her breath hitching in her chest. She takes the bottle from his hands and swallows the smoky liquid. How to explain? How to explain?

“You gave me a chance,” she says, “and I ran with it. And I’ve been running ever since. But when he looks at me… When he looks at me, I feel like I can stop. I feel like I can stop running. Because he understands.” Natasha closes her eyes. “You’re the most important person in the world to me,” she says. “You’re my family, but I—” She looks at Clint now. He watches her, concerned, confused, in love. “But when I see him,” she says, “I remember. And when I see him, I feel. And I… I…” 

She feels tears in her eyes and looks away. Clint reaches for her now, and Natasha remembers Prague. He had reached for her then, but she had jerked away, curling in a ball in the corner of the room. But Clint had waited for her. All night he had waited, and she knew then that she would die for him, this man who had saved her.

He rubs a hand across her back now and kisses the top of her head. “Nat, it’s okay,” he says. “It’s okay. Just— don’t cry, okay? Please. I don’t— We’re okay. We’re okay.”

She pulls back; she sees tears in his eyes as well. “Are we?” she asks.

Clint hesitates. He smoothes a hand over her hair, looks at her a moment, and then nods. “Just— just give me a bit, okay?” 

Natasha tries to smile; she leans in again and wraps her right arm around his neck. Hugging him close, she says, “Someday, you’ll find somebody who deserves you.”

“I already have,” he says, and the catch in his voice makes her heart ache. “I was just too late.” Clint holds her for another few seconds; he kisses the side of her head again before pulling away. Tilting his head toward the door to the building, he says, “You should get inside. Fury will kill me if you get sick being out here with me.”

Natasha stays still, watching him.

“I’ll be fine,” he says. “I’ll come see you later, okay? Tomorrow. I’ll just knock first this time.”

Clint meets her eyes, and, though he lies, his gaze is steady, so Natasha nods and stands and walks away. Looking back, she sees that he’s wrapped a hand again around the whiskey bottle. She’ll ask Steve to come check on him soon, or maybe Tony, and she’ll talk to him later, she’ll talk to him tomorrow, and they will be okay. 

He is her family, and someday, they will be okay.

*


	19. The Fates Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki looks at the bed, at the table with the gifts from the others, the people who care for her, the people he had tried to kill. He cannot be here. He cannot wait for her to return, for her to choose Barton, for him to be cast out once again.

As soon as the door closes behind Natasha, Loki stands and starts to pace. He had known this time would come, this conversation between Barton and Natasha. From the moment in Venice when Natasha had called Barton, when her grip had tightened on the phone, Loki had known the depth of her ties to him, had known she spoke the truth in the Carrier about her regard for him, about his importance to her, even though her intent never was to bargain for his release. 

And now she goes to him to do what? To soothe his wounded ego? To assure him of her love for him? 

_You run from Barton._

_Don’t talk about Clint._

Of course she loves Barton. He had saved her. He had led her from nothing, from the bloodshed of her past, to the life she lives now, one of purpose and salvation, first saving the world from Loki and then saving Loki himself.

And to what had Loki led her? 

Torture, at the hands of Doom.

Why would she choose him? 

_Can you?_ he had said. _Can you change how you feel about me?_

_Yes._

Loki closes his eyes at the memory. He had been a fool to think that change meant anything other than pity, or possibly compassion. She had come to India to kill him, and she had come to Italy because Thor and Odin had asked her to come, had asked her to deal with what they would not, the bastard from Jotunheim. The monster in the shadows.

He looks at the bed, at the table with the gifts from the others, the people who care for her, the people he had tried to kill. He cannot be here. He cannot wait for her to return, for her to choose Barton, for him to be cast out once again. 

Loki teleports to his room. He turns to collect his armor, ready to go somewhere, anywhere, he does not know where, just not here, here without her.

He turns and runs straight into the Captain.

The Captain staggers back, his eyes wide. “That,” he says, “was kind of unexpected. Okay, a lot unexpected.” He sits down on Loki’s bed and draws in a deep breath. “I forgot with teleporting that you really can appear out of thin air. Maybe you could use the door around here until we all get used to it.”

Loki blinks at the Captain. “What?”

“Either that,” the Captain continues, oblivious to Loki’s confusion, “or maybe you could ask Jarvis to give us a head’s up before you pop in.”

Loki blinks again. “What?” 

The Captain finally focuses on him, sees the blank look on his face. “Did nobody tell you about Jarvis?” he asks. “It’s the computer system in the building. It can do just about anything you’d want. Like give you directions or order food.” The Captain pauses, his brows drawing together. “Do you eat food? I know Thor does, and Sif, but—”

“Yes, I eat food,” Loki snaps. “But why would I have Stark’s computer order me food or give me directions or do anything for me? I’m not staying here.” 

Now the Captain blinks. “Yes, you are,” he says.

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes. You are.”

“No. I’m not. I’m leaving now.”

The Captain pauses. “I’m confused,” he says slowly.

“ _You’re_ confused?”

“Didn’t Thor tell you?”

Loki clenches his hands into fists; he draws in a breath to keep from snapping at the Captain again. “I haven’t seen Thor since yesterday. What was he supposed to tell me?”

The Captain stands and retrieves a thick brown envelope from the floor. Handing the envelope to Loki, he says, “After we found you in Switzerland, Director Fury and I talked about the situation with you and Doom and everything’s that happened. We figured that, once Doom recovers, he’s sure to come after you and Natasha again and probably the rest of us too after we invaded his base in Latveria. And if that happens, we’re going to need your help.”

Loki stares at the envelope. “My help?”

The Captain eyes him, unsure of his confusion. “Well, yeah, it’s like you said on the Carrier: nobody on the team knows magic, but Doom does. If we’re going to stop him, we’ll need to use magic, too.”

Now Loki looks at the Captain. “We?” he asks, and he knows he sounds inane, but he cannot help it, the turn in the day almost too swift for him to bear.

The Captain still eyes him, still unsure. “Yes,” he says. “We. You and me and Natasha and Thor and Tony and Bruce and Clint. And Sif, too, since she’s here.” The Captain pauses. Loki feels the same assessment as in the cage before the Captain revealed his knowledge of Loki from the postcards and from Thor. “Did you think you were going to have to fight him again alone?” he asks after a minute.

“I didn’t… I hadn’t…” Loki sits on the bed, the envelope in his hands. He has heard everything the Captain has said, all of the sentences, all of the words, all of the consonants and the vowels, but nothing he has said has made any sense to Loki. “You want me on your team?” he asks, and he hates how unsure he sounds, how thrown.

“Consider it a trial run,” he says as he sits next to Loki. Taking the envelope, he opens it and removes a bulky stack of papers. “But it’s not just me,” he says. “Fury saw reason and argued for you, too. And Thor, of course. We haven’t asked Natasha yet because of her injuries, but I don’t think she would object to it. Bruce and Tony are hesitant but willing, Bruce more than Tony, and Clint…” The Captain pauses. He shifts the papers in his hands and then says, “Well, we just won’t pair you and Clint up anytime soon.” 

Ignoring the papers that the Captain holds, Loki stands and starts to pace the room again. “Are you— Have you gone mad?” he asks.

The Captain frowns. “I don’t think so.”

“Have you forgotten what occurred the last time we were all here in this city?” 

The expression on the Captain’s face becomes grave. “No,” he says. “I haven’t. None of us have, but we also haven’t forgotten what happened in Venice or Latveria or Switzerland. And given what we’ve seen of Doom, we’re going to need all hands on deck. Even yours.”

Loki smirks now. “The enemy of my enemy…”

The Captain shakes his head. “You’re only an enemy if you choose to be, Loki. You said on the Carrier that you had no interest in resuming your conflict with us. Was that a lie?”

Loki turns away, silent.

“I didn’t think so,” the Captain says. He stands and crosses to the window, stopping beside Loki. Holding out the papers once more, he says, “Thor said you didn’t want to return to Asgard. Now you can stay here, if you want. It’s your choice.”

_Someone gave me a chance. And I made a choice._

_We choose who we are. What we become._

She had said those words to him, so many months before. How could she have known, how could he have known, that those words, that night, would lead to this? To this chance? To this choice? 

Staring at the papers, Loki sees on the first page, ‘The terms and conditions for the parole of Loki Odinson.’

_Am I cursed?_ he had said.

_No._

_What am I?_

_You’re my son._

Odin had banished Loki here; he had asked Natasha to help him, to save him. 

_When you’re there, in nothing, you think there’s no way out. So you run and you lie and you become convinced that you are nothing._

_But there is a way out._

Loki looks at the Captain and then glances at the papers. The Captain waits, silent. A beat passes and then Loki reaches out and takes the stack. 

The Captain smiles and turns away. “Just look them over,” he says, crossing to the door. “Let me know if you have any questions. Jarvis can give you my room number.”

Loki nods, still gazing at the papers. After a moment, the Captain departs, leaving Loki alone to decide his fate. 

_Isn’t it funny?_

_Isn’t it funny the way the worlds turn and the fates fall?_

*

Natasha sits in the chair in her room and watches the evening pass into night. Time advances, the shadows slide across the floor, birds fly by the window, the med team comes, then the med team goes, and still Natasha sits, waiting for Loki. 

When she had returned to her room after talking with Clint, and Loki had not been there, she had not been surprised: ‘I’ll be back’ was a vague time frame, and Natasha would not have wanted to wait either. When two hours had passed, and still he had not come, and she had gone to his room and found it empty, she did not worry: unlike her, Loki was not committed to any bed rest for the next day, and he could go anywhere, literally, that he wanted. But when the day had turned to afternoon and then the afternoon to evening, and still he had not come, and she had asked Jarvis if he had seen Loki, and Jarvis had said no, Natasha began to brood. She began to brood over whether Loki had gone after Doom again alone, over whether he had, against all his protests, decided to return to Asgard after all, or whether he had finally tired of this, the ceaseless focus on the past, the scowls from Clint, the worry from Thor, and her. 

Tired of her.

Natasha figures that fate would unfold in this way: she declares her regard for Loki to Clint, and then Loki leaves, never to be seen again. She deserves no less for the sins of her past. 

The door bangs open, but instead of Loki, Tony charges through. “Come on,” he says by way of greeting, seizing her arm and pulling her out of the chair. 

“Hey,” she says as he propels her out of the room. She jerks her arm from Tony’s grasp and stops in the hall. “I’m supposed to be on bed rest.”

“Okay, one,” he says, spinning around to face her, “you were in a chair, not a bed. Two, you hate bed rest anyway, so I know you’ll take any opportunity to leave that room. And three, drunk, mopey gods from Asgard aren’t supposed to be sprawled across my private terrace.”

“I— What?”

“You heard me,” Tony says, taking a step closer to her. “Loki overrode Jarvis’ protocols, stole a bottle of my best tequila, camped out on my deck, and now he won’t leave. He’s already broken rules three, twelve, and twenty-five, and he hasn’t even signed the goddamn thing yet.”

“Rules? Signed what?” Natasha shakes her head, trying to clear out Tony’s inane babble. “What are you talking about?”

Tony peers at her now through narrowed eyes. “You don’t know?” he asks.

“Know what?”

Tony purses his lips. “Somebody was supposed to tell you. Who— Oh, wait, I was. Okay,” he says, the words coming out in the typical Tony Stark rush. “So you see, your boyfriend has been offered clemency by the Council and the government, yadda yadda yadda, if he helps us stop Doom, and he’s supposed to stay here because Steve and Bruce and I can kick his ass if he gets out of line, so he has rules, very important rules about living here, and now he’s breaking three of them on the day before the first day.”

“Oh.” Natasha processes Tony’s revelation about clemency and staying at the tower, and then she looks at him and raises a brow. “Wait, one of your rules is for Loki not to steal your liquor?”

“Yes. Clint already stole my best bottle of whiskey today, and now Loki took my tequila.” Tony eyes her now. “You’re not going to send Steve up there, are you? Or Bruce? Because there is no way I’m going to be responsible for the Hulk getting drunk.”

Natasha narrows her eyes. 

“Just asking,” Tony says. He eases a hand under her elbow and nudges her down the hall. “But you still need to come and collect your boyfriend. And possibly disinfect the terrace.”

Her right hand clenches into a fist.

“Okay,” Tony says, “no disinfecting. But you still have to come. Jarvis says that Loki won’t let him let me in, and he’s not letting Thor or Steve in as well. So that leaves you. And if you don’t come, I’m going to go put on my spare suit and then throw him off the roof.”

Natasha knows that Tony is serious about that last threat, which could be the start of a fight that escalated quickly. “Okay,” she says. “I’ll come.” She starts down the hall and Tony follows. “But you could have just asked instead of thrusting me out of the room.”

Tony quirks a brow. “And you could have protested my use of boyfriend for Loki,” he says, “but you didn’t. Interesting.”

Natasha turns and walks back into her room.

“Hey! You said you’d come.”

“I am,” Natasha replies. “After I get my gun so I can shoot you.”

Tony rushes back into the room and gently spins her away from her guns. “I’ll be good, Roman. I promise. No need to shoot Tony.”

Natasha allows Tony to lead her back out of the room and down to the elevator. Once there, he pushes the button for the penthouse, and she says, “Roman?”

“Not good? You’re not really the nickname type, you know.” Tony pauses, his brows drawing together as he thinks. Then he says, “Red? Russia? Double O? Like Bond, but a girl. Or, you know, a woman.” He smiles at her then, and Natasha sighs. 

The doors of the elevator close. Tony continues to unleash potential nicknames all the way to the penthouse. When the doors open again, Natasha sees Pepper, Thor, and Steve all clustered around the private lift to Tony’s quarters. When they see her, they all flock toward her and start talking at the same time about Loki and Jarvis and rules and clemency and where Natasha can find the cleanser if Loki becomes sick from the tequila. 

She holds up her cast and waves them off, and they retreat to stand beside Tony at the elevator. “Just, just go away,” she says. “Give us some space. I’ll be able to get him to leave faster if I know we aren’t being watched the whole time.”

Tony starts to protest, but then Pepper lays a hand on his arm and says to Natasha, “We’re going. And I promise that Tony won’t instruct Jarvis to record anything to watch later.” Her eyes are warm as she looks at Natasha.

“Thank you.”

“Come on, boys,” Pepper says, pushing the button for the elevator. The doors open again, and she shoos them inside. “Good luck,” she says to Natasha as Tony jabs at a button for a lower level, a pout firmly in place on his face.

“You, too,” she says as the doors close. In the silence that follows their departure, Natasha draws in a deep breath and finds her center. Tony had said that they offered Loki clemency and a place to live in the tower. Natasha looks at the lift. She imagines that his deal looks quite different from her own, not the least because she never had rules about stealing Tony’s alcohol.

She walks now to the lift, and the door opens for her. “Welcome, Ms. Romanov,” Jarvis says, as cool and polite as ever, as she steps inside. 

“Hey, Jarvis.” The lift starts to rise and she says, “Has he said anything?”

“No, Ms. Romanov.”

“Does he know I’m coming?”

“Yes, Ms. Romanov.”

“Okay. Thanks.” 

The lift opens. The room beyond is dark. Natasha steps into the room and starts for the terrace door. As she rounds the bar, she sees Loki through the glass wall. He sits sprawled on the terrace facing away from her, the bottle of tequila open beside him. His armor lies scattered around him, the helmet covering what she assumes is the offered deal. 

Natasha approaches the door to the terrace, and it opens before her. The air outside is crisp, but the tower thankfully blocks most of the wind. Loki does not turn as she walks toward him; he does not look at her as she sits beside him. Natasha glances at the bottle of tequila; over half of it is gone. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks, looking at him. She sees tension in the line of his jaw and uncertainty in his eyes.

He smirks. “Haven’t you talked enough for today, Agent Romanov?”

So it is as much about Clint, as much about her, as it is the deal. “Agent Romanov?” she asks, stretching out her legs before her. Her feet stop by his calves, and she sees that he is, again, barefoot.

“That is your name, is it not?” he asks, his tone short.

“My name is Natasha,” she says. “Although, if you want, Tony has thought up a few nicknames that you could use.”

Loki raises a brow. “Nicknames?”

“Yeah. He kept calling me Natalie for while. That was my cover name when S.H.I.E.L.D. first assigned me to keep an eye on him. And then he used Lola when he saw that I had dyed my hair back to red. Then it was Comrade. And Spiderbabe. He only did that one once. And now Red, Russia, Double O, Roman.”

“Roman?” Loki asks, mild disgust on his face. 

Natasha shrugs. “He’s reaching, I guess. He claimed I wasn’t the nickname type.”

A faint smile appears. “No,” he says. “You’re not.” He looks at her now, and his eyes remind her of Russian winters, his hands the comfort of a gun. Loki searches her face, tracing the lines from her eyes to her lips to the curve of her cheek. Natasha feels the place where he had touched her, where he had whispered something, something that she did not understand, shiver. 

Loki stands and moves away, but she follows. “Can I ask you something?” she asks, stopping behind him. His hands grip the top of the rail, but he does not respond. 

“What did you say to me, before you left Latveria?” Natasha sees Loki close his eyes. He still does not respond, but she presses on; she presses forward. “Because, after you left, a robot came. And I— I had nothing to use to fight. But I wasn’t afraid.” She pauses, remembering. “And when it came, I felt electricity, I felt energy inside me. And when I touched it, it exploded.”

Loki is silent. Still, he is silent.

“What did you say to me?” she asks again, taking a step forward. “Tell me.”

Loki gazes out at the dark cityscape, at the hazy electric lights and the dim stars in the sky. After a moment, he says, “It’s a rune of protection. Fríðr ægishjálmr.” He hesitates, drawing in a breath. Then he says, “It means ‘beloved, the Helm of Awe.’”

He turns to her now, and Natasha cannot breathe. Had Odin known when he granted Loki his judgment wish, when he allowed him to visit her so many months ago, that their worlds, their choices, their fates, would lead to this?

“How long does it last?” she asks. 

“Until you no longer wish it,” he says. “Or until I am no longer alive.”

_Beloved._

_Beloved, the Helm of Awe._

She reaches out, hesitates, and then places her palm on his chest. Natasha feels his heartbeat beneath her hand, she feels her own pound, feels her own thrum under her skin. 

_Isn’t it funny?_

She watches him as she curls her fingers into his shirt, as she draws him down toward her. He watches her as she leans in, as he moves to meet her.

_Isn’t it funny, the way the worlds turn and the fates fall?_

Her eyes fall shut as his lips touch hers. He kisses her like she is gravity, like he is a body in the celestial heavens drawn in to her embrace. She grips his shirt tighter, and he slides a hand into her hair. His mouth moves against hers, and she draws in his breath and returns to him her own. 

He lifts her, and she wraps her legs around his waist. Tilting his head back, she deepens the kiss. He tastes like tequila, but she remembers bourbon, she remembers the feel of his fingers in her hair as he had laid beside her in Switzerland. She feels sparks now where he touches her, from his hand on her waist, from the one threaded deep in her hair.

She breaks the kiss, breathless. Loki leans his head against hers, and she sees the pupils of his eyes blown wide. He slips a hand beneath her shirt, and she shivers as he skims cool fingertips along her spine. “What about the deal?” she asks.

“I already signed it,” he says. “I did an hour ago.”

She looks at him and starts to smile, and she sees one on his face as well. “Stay with me,” she says. “I’m stuck here for another night.”

Loki nods and kisses her again, and she hears the crackle of energy, she sees the flash of green light as he teleports them back to her room. He kisses her again, and Natasha feels. 

She feels so much. 

*


	20. Some Assembly Required

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the morning, the Avengers assemble at Stark Tower.

In the morning, the Avengers assemble at Stark Tower.

Natasha walks into the indicated conference room after her final checkup. The med team had stared at her a few moments and then they had shaken their heads in bewilderment at how fast she was healing. Her bruises had already faded, her cuts had healed, the burns on her wrists and ankles had mended; they had proclaimed her fluids balanced and her ears free from hearing damage as well. The only lasting ailment from her torture at the hands of Doom was her left hand, still in a cast, the bandages now black instead of blue, but the team had proclaimed that if she kept healing at the rate she was now, she could remove the bothersome object in a week or so, rather than the usual six for cases like hers.

Natasha had dismissed their perplexity, stating that she had always recovered quickly from injuries, but now, as she spots Loki lounging in a chair at the end of the long table, she wonders if she owes the Helm of Awe her accelerated convalescence.

Looking at him, Natasha suppresses a smile at memories of the night before. They had only kissed, Natasha uninterested in anything more under the omnipresence of Jarvis and the curiosity of Tony. But there would be time, later, for more. Maybe tonight. 

As if he knows, Loki grins at her, and she rolls her eyes, still suppressing her smile as she sits next to Steve. Loki is on his other side, followed by Thor, Sif, Tony, Bruce, and Clint. Clint glances at her now and sends her a small smile in greeting; Natasha responds with one of her own, grateful at the renewed, though strained, camaraderie. 

The door behind Natasha opens again, and she turns to find Fury and Maria striding in. They take the seats between her and Clint, and then Maria sends the stack of tablets in her hands around the table.

“This is everything we know about Doom,” Fury says once they all have a tablet. “And about Latveria. Now, we know that he’s got an army—”

“But we have a Hulk,” Tony interjects. Natasha sees Loki grit his teeth; Tony catches his gaze, and a shameless grin appears on his face. “Sorry about that, Frosty,” he says. “Did it bring back any unpleasant memories?”

Loki smirks as he flips through the contents of the tablet. “Just the memory of when I threw you out the window,” he says.

Tony turns now to Thor. “And you wondered why that was rule number one.”

“Children, please,” Fury says. “We have business to attend to, unless you’d like to keep sniping at each other.”

“Actually—” Tony begins.

“Actually,” Bruce says, eyeing Tony, “we’d love to attend to business. Please continue.”

“Thank you,” Fury says, still glaring at Tony. Natasha sees the blood vessel in his forehead start to throb as he glares. “Now, as I was saying, Doom has an army in Latveria, so we’re not going to make any excursions there unless we absolutely have to. We’ve taken what we have to the Council: the conflicts in Venice and Switzerland, his connections to the gunrunning ring in Tokyo, Agent Romanov’s kidnapping, his threats against Asgard—”

“Asgard?” Thor says. He straightens in his chair and looks at Fury. “Doom has threatened Asgard?”

Fury glances at Loki; the blood vessel pounds harder. “You didn’t tell him?” he asks.

A beat passes and then Loki says, “No.” He shifts in his chair. “I was… preoccupied.”

“Preoccupied drinking all my tequila,” Tony mutters.

Steve sighs. “Let it go, Tony.”

“You—”

“What threats has Doom made against Asgard?” Thor asks, looking at Loki.

Loki sighs and leans back in his chair. “Something about laying waste to the realm and burning it to ash, exterminating everything.” His eyes fall on Clint now as he says, “You know, Thor, the usual ‘supervillain’ boasting.”

Clint scowls in response.

“What we need,” Fury says before anyone else can speak, “is more information. The more information we have, the greater our options are for action. Now, I have a few ideas—”

“I want to go to Russia,” Natasha says. Silence follows her pronouncement. The entire team turns in her direction. Natasha sees Clint close his eyes; she sees Loki watch her carefully. 

“I assume you have a reason,” Fury says after a moment.

Natasha nods. “Doom mentioned the Red Room to me in Venice. He said he knew people from there, people who were sympathetic to his cause. I want to talk to Luchkov again. He has ties to both the Academy and gun smuggling in the East. He should know something.”

Fury chuckles at her mention of Luchkov. “You really think he’s going to give you anything with the way you left him the last time?”

Natasha smirks at the memory of Luchkov strung up in chains in the middle of Solenski Plaza. “I’ll persuade him.” 

From across the table, Natasha sees Bruce shake his head softly and smile.

Fury regards her a moment and then nods. “Okay,” he says. “We’ll get a plane ready for you.” Turning to Tony now, he says, “I thought that you and Dr. Banner could deconstruct that robot you took from Latveria, see what weaknesses you can discover, any other information it may have about Doom or his army. Agent Barton will assist with weapons testing in case we do have to go in again. At least this time we can be prepared.”

Bruce nods and Tony gives Fury two thumbs up. Clint, however, stays silent.

“Agent Barton?”

Clint leans back in his chair; he gives Fury a measured stare. 

“Do you object to your assignment, Agent?” Fury asks, each word slow and deliberate.

A beat passes in which Clint refuses to relent, and Natasha holds her breath, looking from one to the other. Then, after a moment, Clint rolls his eyes and says, “No, sir. It sounds absolutely thrilling. I’m happy to help.”

Natasha closes her eyes at the sarcasm, knowing that Fury will lambast him for it later. Will this be the new status quo, Clint redirecting his anger at Natasha and Loki onto Fury and the job? Such a course of action, if continued, she knows, could only result in reassignment to the middle of nowhere. Either that or time spent in the brig for insubordination.

Opening her eyes, Natasha sees Fury still regarding Clint. Steve coughs in the tense silence and then Fury turns to him and says, “Captain, Doom is scheduled to attend a U.N. conference here in New York in a couple days about global-interstellar relations. Now, it’s not likely he’ll show given recent events, but if he does, Agent Hill has acquired you special passage as the escort of the two guests of honor, Thor and Sif, our ambassadors from Asgard.”

“Not me?” Loki asks, flashing Fury a tight grin.

“No,” Fury says, grimacing in return. “Not you. Not yet.”

“Yeah, so what about Luther over here?” Tony asks, pointing to Loki. “What’ll he do?”

Steve frowns. “Luther? What kind of nickname is that?”

“Luther,” Tony says, “as in Martin. You know, the Reformation. Because he’s reforming.” He pauses at the blank stares and rolled eyes that follow his explanation. “Too highbrow?” he asks, looking at Bruce. 

“No,” Bruce says. “It just doesn’t make much sense.”

“Stark has a point,” Fury says, interrupting Tony again before he can continue. Peering at Loki now, he asks, “What are you prepared to do?”

Loki looks around the table, his gaze resting half a second longer on Natasha than the rest before finally settling on Fury. “I will accompany Agent Romanov to Russia,” he says after a moment.

Clint snorts at that and Tony opens his mouth to speak, but Fury shoots both of them a glare before turning back to Loki. “And what rationale do you have for such an action?” 

His gaze on Fury steady, Loki says, “Only that Doom has already taken Agent Romanov once. Do you not think that he will try again, now that she will be even more of a temptation to him in Russia, so close to Latveria? Out of all of you, only I have successfully engaged him in combat for longer than two minutes. My presence with her may dissuade him from a second attempt.” He pauses, his eyes still on Fury, and then he says, “Or Doom will be unable to resist both of us being so close to him since, arguably, he wants to kill me even more than he wants to kidnap her, and he will emerge for you to spy on or arrest or whatever action your new information allows you to take.”

Silence again descends upon them as he finishes. Half of the table watches Loki while the other half watches Natasha. She keeps her face blank and waits for Fury to respond. He turns to her now and says, “What are your thoughts about this, Agent?”

Natasha holds his gaze, she feels the others watch her, Clint most of all. “It’s a sound assessment of the situation,” she says, her tone measured. 

Fury arches a brow. “It is at that,” he says, watching her carefully. She keeps her face blank, and, after a few seconds, he sighs and turns away. “Okay, people, you have your assignments.”

Natasha watches as the team stands and starts to disperse. Fury walks over to Clint, leans down, and says something in his ear. Clint grits his teeth, rises, and then follows Fury from the room. 

Someday, she knows. Someday, they will be okay. 

Just not today.

Natasha stands. Only she, Thor, and Loki remain in the room. Loki sits, eyeing Thor, who rises now and says to Natasha, “Agent Romanov, I wish to speak to my brother alone. May he rejoin you later?”

She looks from one to the other and then nods, quirking a brow at the sullen expression on Loki’s face. “I’ll be in my apartment,” she says to him, “packing. Just find me there whenever you’re finished.” 

Loki nods. Natasha grabs her tablet and turns to leave the room as Thor sits once more and begins to question Loki about Doom’s threats against Asgard. 

*

Loki watches Natasha leave. He remembers waking beside her that morning, her presence surely a mirage, surely a lovely, deadly chimera dangled before him by fate only to be spirited away, contentment impossible in a life such as his. But then she had opened her eyes and looked at him, and he remembered the warmth of her skin as she had kissed him the night before, the intensity of her gaze as he had revealed to her the truth of the Helm of Awe.

_Stay with me._

_Stay with me._

_Beloved._

Loki hears Thor move behind him. He turns from thoughts of Natasha, knowing that she waits for him, knowing that she cares for him. As he turns, Thor says, “What threats has Doom made against Asgard?” 

Sighing, Loki rubs a hand across his brow. “It is as I said. He said he would find Asgard and lay waste to the realm.”

“Why did you not tell me sooner?” Thor demands, leaning toward Loki.

Loki meets his eyes. “Why did I have to hear of the Council’s offer from the Captain first rather than you?”

Thor looks at him a moment, then he slumps back in his chair, the intensity fading from his gaze. “I sought for you yesterday,” he says, waving a hand at Loki, “but I could not find you. Not until you appeared on Tony Stark’s platform that evening.” He watches Loki, and Loki steels himself for the question, for the curiosity. “Where were you?” he asks. “You were not with Natasha.”

Standing now, Loki moves away from the table. Always, always Thor appeals to him, but now, now Loki cannot decline. He thinks of Natasha; he owes Thor too much for dishonesty.

“I was in Switzerland,” he says, staring at the painting on the conference room wall.

“Switzerland?” Thor says. “For what reason?”

“For what reason?” Loki repeats with a laugh, turning back to Thor. “Surely you jest. You and the Captain concoct this offer, and Natasha… Natasha…” He shakes his head, recalling the anxiety that had gripped him upon her following Barton the day before. “There was much to contemplate,” he says after a moment. 

“But why Switzerland?”

Loki remembers the church, the flickering candle, the prostrate saint; he remembers Natasha standing before him, shed of all protection to confront the beast within. “It is… quiet,” he says.

Thor raises a brow at the evasion. “Quiet?”

“Yes.” Loki meets his stare. “Quiet.”

A moment passes and then the corners of Thor’s mouth twitch with an unformed smile. “Yes,” he says, “I have heard that the quiet of Switzerland assists well with such contemplation.”

Loki narrows his eyes, prompting Thor to laugh. Glaring, Loki turns to leave, but Thor follows, stepping before him with both hands in the air, earnestness now superseding the mirth on his face. “I apologize,” he says, “for my jest about the quiet. Whatever the reason, I am glad that Switzerland led you to accepting the offer.”

“You are?”

“Yes. Of course,” Thor says, but he hesitates, and Loki prepares himself once more. “It is just, why did you accept their overture? It is not that I did not want you to do so,” he says quickly, watching Loki for any offense. “I understand your reasoning for not wanting to return to Asgard, and I embrace the chance proffered to you here. I just— I did not…”

“You did not think I would accept,” Loki says.

Thor shakes his head. “I hoped, only.” He hesitates again and then says, “Is it Natasha? I know you care for her—”

Loki turns away, the sincerity within Thor always too much. “I did not accept for Natasha,” he says quietly. “Not solely for her.”

“Then why?”

Loki stares at the painting, at the violent swirls of color on the pale canvas. Would honesty with Thor ever come with ease, or would their prior contentions always hinder their efforts? “You are not foe,” he says slowly, still regarding the painting, “but I cannot return to Asgard. So there is here.”

There is a moment of silence, and then Thor is before him, hugging him with such strength that Loki cannot breathe. He coughs, and Thor sets him down, his face suffused with emotion.

“This is a glorious day,” he says, his hands firm on Loki’s shoulders. He looks at Loki as in days of old. “I will not cause you to regret this decision.”

“You don’t—” Loki stops as Thor turns and walks away. “Thor, where—”

“You must go to Natasha,” Thor says, looking back at him over his shoulder. “I will inform Asgard to be watchful for any potential threats from this Doom, and we will defeat him if he chances to show himself there.” At the door, he stops and looks again at Loki. A broad smile appears on his face. “This is a glorious day,” he says once more before turning and leaving the room.

In the calm that follows his departure, Loki breathes in and then out slowly. A glorious day. Perhaps. Loki had awakened next to Natasha and he was about to travel with her to the mysteries of her past, something that he had desired to do since their first conversation. And he had just sent his brother into paroxysm of glee with his decision to stay.

Loki quirks a brow. “A glorious day indeed,” he says before following Thor out of the room.

*

Fury opens the door to the room that Tony had given him as a temporary office, and he points to the chair before the desk. “Sit your ass down, Barton.”

Clint stalks past him to the chair. Gritting his teeth, Fury draws in a calming breath and then shuts the door. If it wasn’t Stark breaking into private S.H.I.E.L.D. files, it was Thor demanding clemency for his murderous brother. If it wasn’t that, it was Natasha doing whatever the hell she’s doing now with Loki, making Fury’s life a hell of a lot more complicated in the process. And if it wasn’t that, it was Steve questioning his every command or General Ross coming after Bruce again or Clint blowing something up in the training facilities with his new explosive arrows. 

Moving around Clint to the chair behind his desk, Fury says, “I want to know exactly how long this snit of yours is going to last so that I know exactly how long I should throw you in the brig.”

Clint looks at him, his gaze defiant. “How long do you plan on having Loki on the team?”

Fury reaches down and opens the bottom drawer of the desk; he removes the container of Tums inside and shakes out four. “As long as necessary, Barton,” he says, chewing all four at once. Christ, did these people give him heartburn. “Did you even bother to watch the footage from Stark? Can you stand in the middle of a giant fireball and not die?”

“No,” Clint says, losing none of his insubordination in the face of Fury’s logic. “But Tony could. Or Bruce. Or Thor.”

“Oh, you mean the Thor who would be back on Asgard if Loki weren’t here?”

Clint stares at him a moment and then shakes his head in disbelief. “You let that monster on the team just to keep Thor happy?”

Fury shakes out a couple more Tums. “Not just Thor,” he says, popping the rest in his mouth. “Look past your own issues, Barton. There are beings in this universe beyond anything we’ve ever seen. We need allies.”

Still shaking his head, Clint crosses his arms over his chest and stares past Fury to the window beyond. “Not him,” he says, and the haunted expression on his face causes the rage within Fury to subside. Clint had rejected therapy the first time Fury had mentioned it, about a week after Thor and Loki had departed for Asgard. Maybe Fury could order him to go. He doubts that the attempt could be more disastrous than when he had made Natasha endure multiple sessions with the therapist when she had first arrived.

Fury leans forward now, but Clint still won’t look at him. “Why not?” he asks. “And if you say it’s because of what he’s done in the past, need I remind you of your own checkered life? Or Romanov’s? Or mine? Hell, even Stark made a vast chunk of his fortune making weapons that were used against us more times than I can count. The man wants to be here, Barton.” 

“Then I don’t,” Clint says, finally looking at Fury. The pain in his voice makes Fury sigh. “At least not now,” he continues. “Isn’t there anywhere you can send me to get me out of this goddamn building?”

“Yeah,” Fury says, digging through the piles of folders on his desk. He finds the desired one in the third stack. “But you’re not going to like it.”

Curiosity eases some of the strain within Clint. “Why not?”

“Because you’d be going back to New Mexico.” Fury hands Clint the folder; stapled to the top is a picture of Jane Foster. “We need to bring her in. Loki said that Doom claims he’s been off world. She knows the theory behind deep space travel better than anyone. She’s back in New Mexico now, and she might be able to help us understand how Doom has been travelling to different worlds, maybe even figure out which ones with Thor’s help.”

Barton scowls at the photograph. Fury would, too, if he were Barton. Everything began in New Mexico with the appearance of Thor and Mjolnir: Phase 2, Loki and the Chitauri, the Avengers. And now this, Loki and Doom and Natasha caught in between. “Told you you weren’t going to like it,” he says. “But it’s either that or help Stark and Banner with weapons testing or I put you in the brig. It’s your choice.”

Now Clint scowls at him. If his issues were just about the job or what happened when Loki possessed him, Fury thinks he could help Clint more. But he knows that a good chunk of Clint’s rage comes from whatever the hell is going on between him, Natasha, and Loki, and Fury doesn’t want to touch that mess with a ten-foot pole. 

Clint stands and tosses the folder back onto Fury’s desk. “What should I tell her if she asks any questions?” 

“As much as it takes to get her here, Barton. But you’ll probably only need one word: Thor.”

Clint nods and then turns and walks out of the room. As the door slams behind him, Fury sighs and shakes out a few more Tums. He was never so foolish as to believe that peace would come when Loki left in May, but he never expected the ceaseless stress of walking the line between Asgard and the Council, Clint and Loki, the past and the future. Perhaps he should make Rogers tightrope for a while, the man so eager to insert himself into this mess with Loki. But Fury knows that he can’t, not yet, Steve still so young, still so vulnerable to sentiment, to his own losses in life. 

Fury knows that the team needs him still, their bonds too fresh, too tenuous, but maybe someday. 

For this, Fury will hope.

*


	21. To Russia, With Love?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The idea of love for someone such as he transfixes Loki. He had prized cunning in Asgard, had valued the coolness of mind that Thor had lacked. He saw love only as light from a distant star, nothing more than a pale, insubstantial flicker in the heavens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title a modified version of the Bond movie _From Russia with Love._
> 
> _**There are spoilers for _The Great Gatsby_ in this chapter.** _

A week since Natasha last stood in her apartment, her gun held on Loki as she explained the situation to him, his theft from Doom, her conversation with Odin, the return of his abilities. To her, though, she feels the days as months, her life changing so much in so short a span of time. She looks down at her bed, the clothes still in disarray from her desperate lunge for her gun as Loki had darted forward, agitated at her revelations. 

_I have no desire to harm you_ , he had said.

_I just want to know what has happened._

Natasha reaches down and pulls her mother’s scarf from the pile. Searching for knowledge from each other, the answers to their respective riddles, she the reason for his return, he the key to her change, they had found more, found honesty amidst all their lies as well as understanding for the sins of their pasts, how the ghosts linger and never go away.

_Do you love him?_

_Do you love him?_

Natasha does not know love, not love such as this, the emotion merely a tool in the past for her to use to ensnare her prey. She remembers her relief when Loki had appeared in her door after he had fought Doom in Switzerland; she remembers the way her nerves had burned when he kissed her at the top of Stark Tower. Is this love? Is this love? She does not know. 

“Travelling?” he asks.

Natasha smiles. She places the scarf back onto the bed and glances up to find Loki leaning in the doorway, clad in a dark grey suit and patterned tie, the makila once again in his hands. He looks at her, his eyes soft, softer than she thought either of them, so sharp and jagged, ever capable of being. Is this love? Is this love? She does not know.

“Yes,” she says, turning toward him. “Hopefully with gear this time.”

He smirks. “No promises,” he says, striding into the room. “Our last excursion resulted in some… interesting ensembles.”

Natasha grimaces at the ugly tourist clothes that she had been forced to wear upon their escape to Switzerland. “Don’t remind me,” she says, beginning to organize again the piles on her bed. As she refolds a shirt, she says, “Although I did like the dress.”

Loki nods his appreciation. “Yes,” he says. “The dress was… exquisite.” 

She remembers the way he had looked at her as they had danced in Venice. You look, he had said then, but she had stopped him. Exquisite, he says now, Natasha finally allowing the thought to be complete. “I doubt there will be any use for dresses this time. Just this,” she says, pointing to her black fighting uniform.

“Also exquisite,” he says, crossing behind her to drape across the chaise beneath her window. He grins at her, and Natasha shakes her head, the corners of her mouth twitching. Turning back to the bed, she begins to pack; Loki watches as she gathers a pair of jeans, a soft black sweater, her favorite leather jacket. She places a few shirts in her suitcase. Her hand hovers over her mother’s scarf and then she wraps it around her neck.

As if he knows, he says, “I imagine it will be quite cool in Russia this time of year.”

“Yes,” she says. “But no snow. Not yet.” She reaches for her equipment case, and she knows that he continues to watch her. Opening the case, Natasha checks the taser disks and flashbangs, her knives and surveillance gear, her retractable baton and tracer beacons. She slips her guns into the foam lining, and still Loki regards her. Tapping a finger against her garrote, she says, “I’ll be fine. I know who I am, what I’ve done.”

“That doesn’t make delving into the past an easier venture.”

Natasha sighs. Of this, they both know. She turns to Loki now and sits on the edge of the bed. “Would you have me not go?” she asks.

He shakes his head.

“Then what?”

He looks at her, his gaze inscrutable. She recognizes these moments now, the times in which he does not lie, but still conceals the truth. She needs more time to learn how to discern the truth beneath the impassivity, his attempt not to deceive, just not to reveal. 

Loki stands now, a faint smile on his face. “Then nothing,” he says, walking toward her. She rises to meet him. Lifting a hand, he traces a curl in her hair. “You know yourself,” he says, his voice low. “More so than anyone else I know. I do not question your willingness to return to Russia. Or to the Red Room.”

“But you hesitate,” she says. “Why?”

Loki does not respond. As she waits, the shuttered nature of his gaze vanishes, and Natasha sees only concern. Smoothing a hand over the folds of her scarf, he says, “Only because this will cause you pain. Histories such as ours always do.”

He regards her for another moment and then he dips his head, brushing his mouth against hers, his lips a query, an invitation. Natasha answers, she accepts, the resulting kiss a slow burn that makes her reach for him. She wraps her hand around his tie and draws him closer. The makila falls to the floor. Loki holds onto her, one hand along the back of her neck, the other sliding open the first button of her shirt. 

_Is this love, Agent Romanov?_

His fingers find bare skin, and Natasha shivers. She pushes his jacket off his shoulders, and he releases her only to shrug off the jacket; then he returns and captures her mouth once more. She moves her right hand down his chest and finds the belt around his waist; he toys with another button as she tugs on the smooth black leather, and then the phone in her pocket begins to beep.

Loki breaks away, his eyes dark. “What is it?” he asks.

“They have a location for Luchkov,” she says, breathing fast. “And a plane for us.”

“Plane?” he says. His fingers still play with the button.

Natasha bites back a moan. “From Moscow,” she says. “Wherever Luchkov is, I doubt you’ve been.”

At that, Loki closes his eyes. He rests his forehead against hers and breathes in deeply. Then he says, his voice a low growl that makes her shudder, “This will not be rushed.”

_Is this love, Agent Romanov?_

She nods and Loki pulls away, his mouth slick and tie askew. He licks his lips and opens his eyes, and the look he gives her now sets her soul aflame.

_Love is for children._

“I’ll be outside,” he says, retrieving the makila and his jacket from the floor. Natasha nods again as he walks away. Closing her eyes, she slides her thumb across her swollen mouth. 

_Love is for children._

*

When she finishes packing, they teleport to Moscow and then fly to Omsk, a smaller city in southern Russia, close to Kazakhstan. They arrive near 11 p.m., the perfect time to hunt Georgi Luchkov.

In the hotel, Natasha unpacks her gear. Slipping off her leather jacket, she eases on her shoulder holster and places one of her guns in the left pocket and some flashbangs in the right. Then she slides her baton into her left boot beside her calf, a few plastic restraints into the back pocket of her jeans, and a taser disk under the edge of her cast. 

Loki arches a brow at that. 

Natasha shrugs. “It’s the only way to make this thing useful,” she says.

As he chuckles, she puts her jacket back on; a small set of binoculars rests in her right pocket, her phone and a banded stack of rubles in the left. She grabs a small pouch from her suitcase and walks to the bathroom. Turning on the light, Natasha opens the pouch and removes the mascara, eyeliner, and lip-gloss inside.

Loki follows her to the bathroom. “Essential gear?” he asks, a bemused look on his face.

“Fortunately yes,” she says. Peering into the mirror, Natasha removes her mother’s scarf and unbuttons the top three buttons of her shirt. She grabs the eyeliner and leans in close to the mirror. “Tonight,” she says as she applies the soft grey lines, “you are my unsuspecting victim. Luchkov will try to warn you about me at some point, wanting to get his revenge for me manipulating him before. That’s when you’ll put the tracer on him.” She returns the eyeliner to the pouch and opens the mascara. 

“The tracer?”

“It’s in my bag,” she says and Loki walks away, returning a moment later with her gear bag. Finishing with the mascara, she says, “Small flap in the bottom left corner.” He opens the flap and removes the metal disc, no larger than a pencil eraser. “Just in case,” she says. “We may need to follow him a while before we can interrogate him without being seen.”

Loki slips the disc into his jacket. Natasha slicks her lips with gloss and places the tube in the front pocket of her jeans; then she inspects her reflection, tucking in a stray strand of hair. She sees him in the mirror, watching her, his eyes dark.

_They see a doll— a toy with which to be played_ , he had said.

_But you’re no doll._

Turning to Loki now, she feels heat start to swirl within her at his gaze. “Ready?” she asks.

His eyes travel the length of her, pausing at the flare of her hips, at her mouth, her eyes. The seconds slide by, time made languorous between them, and then he nods. 

“Good,” she says, reaching for his hand and leading him from the room to the narrow hall of the hotel. “Because I hope you like vodka.”

*

Loki follows Natasha to a dark club on the Om River. A slate floor extends from the entrance to the back wall. Crimson curtains enclose hidden alcoves along the right wall and a long, slim bar extends the length of the left. Sleek black tables cover half the floor before giving way to space for dancers, the gathered crowd swaying to the sinuous beat of the music. In the haze of the smoke clouding the ceiling, Loki sees a balcony hovering above the alcoves, containing more nooks and tables for the patrons. 

Natasha leads him across the club to the bar. As she orders a bottle of Moskovskaya vodka, Loki scans the crowd for the man that she had described as Georgi Luchkov. His eyes pause on the balcony. In the back corner, past the stiff suits of guards and the short dresses of women, he sees a medaled uniform and a shock of white hair. Leaning toward Natasha, he says, “He’s here. Back corner of the balcony.”

Natasha nods. The bartender hands her the bottle, which she passes to Loki, and two shot glasses. “We’ll go to the opposite corner,” she says, pushing away from the bar and inclining her head for him to follow. She leads him to a staircase to the left of the entrance and then up dark stairs to the balcony. Once there, they find an empty table by the railing overlooking the bar below. Loki glances at the back corner; they have a clear line of sight to the alcove in which Luchkov sits, surrounded by a group of fawning young women.

Natasha sits on the stool facing Luchkov. She places the shot glasses on the table as Loki eases onto the stool opposite her. As he sets the bottle beside the glasses, she smiles. Her eyes shine in the misty light. 

“So,” she says, leaning toward him. He indulges a glance down, embracing the part of the unsuspecting victim seduced by her charms. She smirks at him and continues, “Where would you have gone next, after Italy?”

He shoots her a look as he opens the bottle. “This is what you want to discuss to lure Luchkov in?”

Natasha shrugs. “It doesn’t matter what we talk about,” she says. “He can’t hear us.” She pauses and then says, her voice softer, “I want to know.”

He stares at her for another moment and then pours the shots, nudging one toward her. Natasha lifts hers and swallows it, the movement smooth. Restraining his smile, Loki follows suit, the shot warm as it goes down. “Probably France,” he says upon finishing. 

“Paris?” she asks.

“Either that or the South of France.” He refills their glasses. “Have you ever been?”

She nods. “Once, to Paris last year. It was a personal vacation.” Her eyes again go soft, and she smiles as she rubs a finger around the rim of the glass. “I drank too much wine, ate too many croissants. I bought too many clothes. And I didn’t think about S.H.I.E.L.D. or spying. It was nice.” The smile hovers on her lips as she remembers. Loki watches her, wanting to go, wanting to see her there. After a moment, Natasha shakes her head and the softness vanishes, the Widow appears. She throws back her shot, looks at him and then down at his own glass, and raises a brow. 

Loki swallows the second shot. As he moves to refill their glasses, Natasha props her left leg on the rail. His eyes follow the slim line of her leg. The tip of her boot rests next to his right knee. Sliding his hand beneath the table, he runs his fingers along the curve of her foot, around her ankle, and up her calf, the muscle firm beneath the supple texture of the leather. He wants her in a room for a week, just him and this gorgeous, cunning woman who had tricked him and saved him. He wants to unlock the secrets inside her; he wants her always to look at him as she had when she woke beside him in Stark Tower.

_I don't know what happened on Earth to make you so soft._

_Don't tell me it was that woman?_

He remembers scorning Thor for his regard for Jane Foster, scorning the idea of a god from Asgard falling before a simple woman from Earth. But the woman before him now is far from simple, and Loki had fallen before her when she had looked at him in the cage and revealed to him her deception, her knowledge of his plan, when she had stood before him in the church in Switzerland and dared him to kill her.

_Is this love, Agent Romanov?_

The idea of love for someone such as he transfixes Loki. He had prized cunning in Asgard, had valued the coolness of mind that Thor had lacked. He saw love only as light from a distant star, nothing more than a pale, insubstantial flicker in the heavens.

He looks at Natasha now. “Where would you go?” he asks, lifting the shot glass. “If you had the time.”

She purses her lips as he swallows. Then she says, “Maybe Paris again. Or Spain.” Knocking back her own shot, she continues, “I blame Hemingway for that.”

“Hemingway?”

“American author. I finished reading one of his novels just before going to Italy. _The Sun Also Rises_. Part of it is set in Spain.” Natasha glances at him. “What kind of literature do they have in Asgard?”

Loki grimaces. “Dreadfully boring historical epics telling tales of bravery and valor,” he says. He rests his hand on her boot. “Perhaps now that I’m here I should investigate Midgardian works.” He pauses and she smiles at him. “Do you have any suggestions?”

“You mean besides _War and Peace_?” she asks, her eyes sparkling at the memory of his signal to her in India.

He smirks. “Yes. Besides that.”

Natasha regards him for a moment, silent as she contemplates his request. Loki waits, pouring another round into their glasses. Then she says, “Maybe Fitzgerald. _The Great Gatsby_.”

“What does it concern?”

“A man who chooses to be who he wants to be and then everything he does to try to make that a reality.”

Loki stills. He stares at Natasha, and she meets his gaze, her eyes shrewd and somber. “Does he succeed?” he asks.

She hesitates. Lifting her glass, she swallows the shot and says, “No. He pinned it all on the wrong girl.” She pauses again, peering at him, and the expression on her face is thoughtful and determined. “But that’s not the point,” she says. “Not all of it. He tries. He keeps trying. He doesn’t let anything stop him. ‘So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.’”

_I’ve got red in my ledger. I’d like to wipe it out._

_Can you? Can you wipe out that much red?_

Natasha slides off her stool and circles around the table toward him; Loki swivels until they face each other. She props a foot on the crossbar and raises herself until their eyes are level. The look on her face is still thoughtful. “I’m not the wrong girl,” she says. Her right hand rests lightly on his chest.

Loki reaches out and slides his palm against her cheek, the skin flushed now under the hazy light. “No,” he says, “You’re not.” He draws her in and kisses her, tasting jasmine and the sharp bite of the vodka. He feels the energy start to rouse within him, start to sizzle up his spine as she leans in and braces herself on the railing behind him. His other hand drifts to her hip.

In the next moment, she pulls away, licking her lips, and then she breathes in, and he groans as the soft swell of her breasts brush against his chest. “Let’s get this over with,” she says, her voice a husky tremor that Loki wants moaning beneath him. “Because I want you back in the hotel making good on your promise.”

_This will not be rushed._

Loki nods, and he sees his own wicked grin flash across her face. Then Natasha hops off the stool and walks away. He watches her, Loki watches, and then he waits for Luchkov, for the trap to be sprung and the game to begin.

*


	22. The Spy Who Came In From The Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki, too, knows the value of information, the power within to disarm a person more easily than a gun or a blow. He had wielded the sins of her past against her on the Carrier, expecting her heart to break and bleed before him. He had not known that the blood had been drained long before. What else made the Red Room so red?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from the John le Carre novel of the same name.

As soon as the door to the stairwell closes behind Natasha, Loki grabs the shot still waiting for him and swallows it, closing his eyes at the heat pooling low in his gut, the heat from the liquor and from her. He breathes in the smoky air and tries to steady his nerves before he talks with Luchkov. The music in the club has not ceased in its sinuous rhythm. He still feels where she had placed her hand on his chest; he still feels the warmth of her as she leaned in to kiss him. 

Shifting on the stool, Loki hears two men approach. He opens his eyes, and they move into his line of sight, each man tall and wearing a plain black suit over thick muscles. Loki sees the outlines of guns beneath their jackets.

“Please come with us,” the one on the left says in Russian.

Loki stares at the two men through narrowed eyes, and the deception begins. “No,” he says, also in Russian. “I’m occupied at the moment.”

The one on the right leans toward him and pulls his jacket back to show Loki the gun beneath. “General Luchkov is most insistent to speak with you,” he says. “It is best if you come with us now.”

Loki eyes the gun and the two men. Then he nods and the man on the right steps back to allow him to stand. They escort him, one before him and one behind, across the balcony to the corner in which Luchkov sits. As they walk the length of the club, Loki glances down at the lower level; he does not see Natasha, but he knows that she watches. Turning back to the dim corner just ahead, he sees that the fawning women have vanished and Luchkov sits alone, waiting for him on a low black couch, scrolling through the phone in his hands. 

Luchkov rises as Loki and the two men reach him. Placing his phone on the table, he says to Loki, “Thank you, comrade, for indulging my desire to speak with you. I am—”

“I know who you are,” Loki says, ignoring the hand offered to him. He inspects the table separating him from Luchkov and grimaces; glasses filled with a variety of liquids span the surface as well as ashtrays and half-eaten bits of food.

One of the men brings Loki a chair, and Luchkov indicates for him to sit. “It is good to know that my reputation extends beyond the borders of Russia,” he says as he resumes his place on the couch. An oily grin appears on his face. “Though your Russian is excellent, my friend.”

Loki raises a brow but stays silent.

Eyes darting back to the table at which Loki and Natasha had been sitting, Luchkov says, “I saw you across the way with your companion. She is most striking.”

“Yes,” Loki says. “She is.”

“What has she told you is her name?”

Loki allows a small frown to appear on his face. “Why do you ask?”

“For me,” Luchkov says, thumping a hand against his chest, “she claimed to be Ekaterina.”

“Claimed?”

“Oh, yes. Claimed.” Luchkov leans forward and lifts one of the glasses from the table. He swallows a mouthful of the amber ale inside and then says, “But I knew the truth.”

Loki stares at him; Luchkov’s face is red from the alcohol and dotted with sweat. Restraining another grimace, Loki says, a touch of curiosity to his voice now, “And what is the truth?” 

Spite darkens Luchkov’s face as he looks back across the club. “Her name is Natalia,” he says. His hands twist across the glass. Returning his gaze to Loki, he asks, “Have you ever heard of the Black Widow?”

Loki nods. “A woman. A spy.”

“She is the Black Widow.”

“Oh, I know,” Loki says, and he grins at the surprise that flits across Luchkov’s face. Leaning forward, Loki lowers his voice so that Luchkov must lean in. As he does so, he casts an illusion and then plucks Luchkov’s phone from the table, slipping it into his jacket pocket. Then he says, “My employer was most informative about Natalia before he sent me here.”

“Your employer?”

“Yes. He says the two of you are acquainted.” Loki pauses; Luchkov leans in further to hear the revelation. Loki waits another few seconds and then he says, “Victor von Doom.”

Luchkov peers at him through narrowed eyes. Loki casts an illusion and then holds up his left hand. Luchkov glances at it and sees a replica of the ugly ring that Doom wears. After another moment, he nods and reclines once more on the couch. Loki nearly sighs at the ease of this deception, at the ridiculousness of this man. “Then you have heard of the unfortunate disruption of his operation in Tokyo?” he asks, raising a brow.

Luchkov nods again and takes another drink of his ale.

“The Black Widow was the disruption.” Loki brings a tight smile to his face and continues, “My employer could not allow that to go unaccounted for.”

The words linger in the air between them, and then Luchkov straightens. He stares at Loki, his eyes bright. “Who does she think you are?” he asks.

“One of his unsuspecting associates,” Loki says with a sigh. “She’s been trying to question me most of the night about his gun operations in Russia.”

Luchkov chuckles at that. “A futile effort,” he says. “Thankfully for me, his interests in Russia lie elsewhere.”

“Yes,” Loki says. “He’s mentioned the Academy to me once or twice.” Pausing, Loki smirks and then says, “Thankfully for him, they will not mind the demise of one of their former agents.”

Luchkov chuckles again. “Oh, no. No, they will be most appreciative. In fact, you should tell your employer that he should inform Anna at the first opportunity. She will be very keen to know.”

Loki smiles. “I’ll be sure to do so,” he says before standing. “Now, if you don’t mind, I must return. She’ll become suspicious if I’m away for too long.”

Nodding, Luchkov rises as well. He eases around the table and extends a hand to Loki. Casting another illusion, Loki grasps the proffered hand with his right while his left drops the tracer into Luchkov’s pocket. 

The oily grin returns to Luchkov’s face. “I wish you all the best with your endeavor tonight,” he says.

Loki inclines his head in thanks and then turns and walks back across the club. He sees Natasha seated again at the table. She rests her elbows on the railing and stares down into the lower level. He pauses for a moment and looks at her, lithe in her tall boots and black jacket. Under his gaze, her eyes cut to him, and he sees the Widow, he sees Natasha, and he desires both.

She tracks him as he makes his way toward her. When he is close, she stands and says, “So?”

“You were right,” he says, stopping before the table. “He is a moron.”

Natasha nods, and Loki grabs the vodka bottle, screws on the cap, and then vanishes it, sending it back to the hotel room. Then he grasps her hand and leads her to the stairwell. “Come on,” he says. “The tracer’s in place.”

They pass through the door to the stairwell, and there Loki stops, knowing he should not stop, knowing they have a job, they have a mission to do, but he has to stop. Turning, he presses her back against the wall; he feels her body flush against his own. Loki breathes in the scent of her hair, pomegranate mixed with the smoke from the club, and he shudders as Natasha slides away, her body caressing his, the wicked grin once more on her face. Her hand eases down his chest to catch at the buckle of his belt, and then she says, “Mission first,” before tugging him to follow her. 

Loki follows. He can’t not.

Once outside, he breathes in the crisp night air and basks in the gentle lap of the Om River after the sensory overload of the club and Natasha. After a block, she releases him, and he reaches into his pocket for Luchkov’s phone. “Here,” he says, passing it to her. “This might prove useful.”

The smile of the hunter appears on her face as she looks at the phone. “It will,” she says. She slides the phone into her pocket alongside her own before removing hers. “What else did he say?” 

“Nothing of much import. He did mention a name though, a woman connected to the Academy and to Doom.”

At the mention of the woman, Loki sees Natasha still. Her thumb hovers over her phone, the tracking screen ready to load at her touch. “What was the name?” she asks. Though her voice is calm, she does not look at him, and her avoidance makes him hesitate. 

The silence endures for half a minute before Natasha finally looks at him, her eyes braced for the worst, and Loki says, “Anna. He said her name was Anna.”

Natasha nods once, the movement stiff. Then she turns back to her phone, powering the tracking program. She says nothing more. Brows drawing together, Loki takes a step toward her. He has never seen her this unsettled before, this shut down, so devoid of emotion. “Natasha,” he says, “who is she?”

Her voice is flat and brisk when she speaks. “We should go,” she says. “Find someplace to wait until Luchkov leaves. There’s—”

“Natasha.” She glares at him, furious at his insistence. He pitches his voice soft and says again, “Who is she?”

Natasha continues to glare, but Loki waits. He has to know. After a moment, she relents and says, “Madam Anna Volenskaya. She was in charge of the girls in the Red Room when I was there.” Natasha stops and licks her lips. Her breath hitches in her chest as she says, “She’s the woman who made me.” 

_But you hesitate. Why?_

_Only because this will cause you pain._

Loki opens his mouth, but before he can speak, she does, her voice once again flat and brisk. “There’s a café a few blocks away,” she says. “It stays open late for midnight shipments. We can go there and wait for Luchkov to leave.”

Natasha looks at him, and he nods, unwilling to push further. They need to question Luchkov, and, for that, Natasha needs a steady mind. Pushing into her past against her desire would only result in the opposite. So he holds her gaze, keeping his face blank. In her eyes, Loki sees the hunter and the child. 

_Our childhoods were very different._

Natasha stares at him a moment longer and then she nods before turning and walking away. 

After another moment, Loki follows. He can’t not.

*

They sit in the café, sipping bitter espresso. Natasha stares at the blinking dot on her phone, Luchkov still in the club after an hour. Before her, Loki conjures a variety of images on the tabletop, the Oriental Pearl Tower from Shanghai, the Brandenburg Gate, the Swiss Alps. Given the lack of interest from the other people in the café, Natasha assumes that he also projects an illusion around them, hiding at least his spell casting.

She knows that he wants to discuss the Madam. The brief references that she has made to her past have intrigued him as much as his allusions to Asgard and Jotunheim have interested her. But she cannot do so. Not yet. She needs time to process, to accept the necessity of speaking about the woman who had broken Natasha and who had smiled while doing so.

Natasha closes her eyes and tries to block the memories from her time in the Red Room, but the images still swirl in her mind. She remembers the men with the needles and the Madam slapping her when she fell out of pirouette. She remembers warm blood on her hands from the girl who had slept in the room beside Natasha, as she tried to stem the flow from the jagged cuts on the girl’s wrists, the metal edge still dangling from the girl’s slack fingers. 

She remembers the boy with the brown eyes, lying dead in the snow before her.

When she had first come to S.H.I.E.L.D., Fury had ordered Natasha to therapy. She had endured six excruciating sessions in silence, staring at the therapist as she tried to convince her of the value of communication, of how talking about her past would help her recover from it. But Natasha had learned the risk of communication in the Red Room, how the revelation of emotion led to another possessing power over you. The Madam had imparted that particular lesson well.

Only after two years of working alongside Clint had Natasha revealed anything personal about her life, anything not related to the routine operations of the Academy that S.H.I.E.L.D. could use in its future endeavors. In that time, Clint had revealed most of his life to her, trusting her when she did not deserve trust. Gradually, she spoke of herself, and he had listened; he had not judged; and he had kept her secrets, safeguarded the worst of her life from the interest of others. 

Until Loki.

Natasha looks at Loki now. He, too, knows the value of information, the power within to disarm a person more easily than a gun or a blow. He had wielded the sins of her past against her on the Carrier, expecting her heart to break and bleed before him. He had not known that the blood had been drained long before. What else made the Red Room so red?

She looks at him, and he meets her gaze. _The stoic Agent Romanov_ , he had said in Switzerland before he had bled before her, his memories a tidal wave from which he had expected her to run. But the wave had washed over her, and she had stood firm. She had stopped running.

_Why are you doing this?_ he had asked.

_Because I know._

Trust had not existed in the Red Room. Love had not existed in the Red Room. Nothing existed there, the Room merely a Void.

_But there is a way out._

The Madam had broken her, had remade Natasha as a reflection of herself, but Clint had opened a door from that Void, had provided Natasha with a chance to rebuild herself in her own image. And with Loki, she had found the opportunity to balance her ledger, to bestow upon him the same opportunity that she had had, the same chance to reconstruct himself from his shattered life.

Never had she expected what would follow.

Natasha looks at him now. They have killed and they have lied and they have run; they have lived in worlds devoid of sincerity and sentiment; but he came to her and she followed him, and he had come for her and she had saved him.

_When I see him, I remember._

_And when I see him, I feel._

_Because he understands._

She looks at him now, and she says, “Love is for children. That’s what she always said. The Madam. Anna. ‘Love is for children, Natalia. Now, are you a child?’” Natasha pauses at that and shakes her head. She remembers being six and so afraid, willing herself to hit the next target. She remembers being thirteen, her hands covered in blood as the girl, Maria, died in front of her. Loki stares at her, he watches her so intently. “Children suffered there,” she continues, holding his gaze, “so I chose not to be a child. I chose not to love. It was just a game, a part to play in order to get what I wanted.”

She looks at him now, and she sees more than she ever thought she would see, she feels more than she ever thought she would feel, so she draws in a deep breath and she says, “This is not a game.”

He stares at her, and he is still, so still, save for his eyes. They burn as they gaze upon her, as he lays his hand beside her own. “No,” he says. “It’s not.”

The dot on her phone begins to move. 

Natasha never knew trust in the Red Room. She never knew love. She knew manipulation and lies. She knew isolation and fear. But she is not in the Red Room any longer, and she is no longer afraid. 

Natasha knows that she is not a child, but she also knows that love is not for children.

She stands now, grabbing her phone, and Loki rises beside her. He stares down at her, and she feels a small smile form on her face. She turns for the exit, and she sees an answering one appear on his face as well.

_Tell me_ , he had said.

And she had said, _Yes_.

*


	23. Weapons of Mass Destruction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The woman before him is not Jane Foster. She has long brunette hair, full lips, and a body like one of those 1940s pin-up girls that Tony teases Steve with. Clint sees that her eyes are closed and tiny white headphones pump music into her ears that Clint can hear from five feet away. Led Zeppelin. “Rock and Roll.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This chapter contains some violence as well as a brief scene of torture.**

Clint grimaces in the midmorning light of Galisteo, New Mexico, still feeling the effects of the entire bottle of whiskey that he had consumed the day before. Tony had found him lying flat on the roof of the tower a few of hours after Natasha had left, the empty whiskey bottle balanced on his forehead. He knows that Tony had said something, something about circuses, before leading him back to his room, but Clint cannot recall exactly what. His next clear memory is of earlier that morning when Jarvis had woken him to inform him of the meeting in the conference room.

Clint remembers the way that Natasha had looked at Loki when she walked into the room, the caution always heavy in her gaze now gone, her expression instead effervescent. She had never looked at Clint that way, only with suspicion and hesitation and then with gratitude and trust.

_You’re the most important person in the world to me_ , she had said.

_Someday, you’ll find somebody who deserves you._

Sighing, Clint closes the door to his SUV and crosses the street to the new building that Jane Foster had rented. He does not know if he will ever stop loving Natasha, but she had made her choice and he will move on.

Somehow, he will move on.

Clint opens the door to the building and walks down the hall to the large room beyond. Tables with computers and other gear, along with enormous white boards bearing calculations that make Clint’s head spin, form a massive rectangle in the center of the room. In the middle of the rectangle, Clint sees someone move.

“Ms. Foster?” he says.

No one responds, so Clint starts around the room, looking for a way into the rectangle. He passes by one of the whiteboards and then, over the tops of the computers on the next table, he has his first clear view into the middle.

The woman before him is not Jane Foster. She has long brunette hair, full lips, and a body like one of those 1940s pin-up girls that Tony teases Steve with. Clint sees that her eyes are closed and tiny white headphones pump music into her ears that Clint can hear from five feet away.

Led Zeppelin. “Rock and Roll.”

Ducking under the table, Clint watches as the woman dances. She starts to sing along, and Clint raises a brow at how well her husky voice wails along with Plant. She spins in a circle, whipping her hair around, and Clint feels a smile tug at the corners of his lips. 

He lets himself watch her for a verse, her energy soothing his frazzled nerves, and then he starts forward. He could wait until she finishes, he knows, but Clint also knows that would be creepy, him standing there without her knowledge, watching her dance. “Ma’am?” he says, but she does not hear him, so he reaches out and braces himself, knowing he is about to scare the absolute shit out of this woman.

When he touches her arm, she shrieks and opens her eyes, her iPod falling from her hand. Right arm darting out, Clint catches the iPod in midair. Eyes wide, the woman looks from him to the iPod and then says, “Holy shit, that was awesome.”

He grins now and returns the iPod to her. She removes the headphones from her ears, and he says, “I’m sorry I scared you.”

“No. No, it’s okay.” She flutters a hand over her chest, and Clint tries hard not to stare. “The elevated heart rate is good. It’s like exercise, you know, only without the sweating.” He quirks a brow, and she shrugs. “Positive spin, dude. You took ten years off my life.” Huffing out another breath, she slips her iPod into the back pocket of her jeans and then thrusts a hand out toward him. “I’m Darcy,” she says. “How can I help you?”

Clint shakes her hand. “Clint. I’m looking for Jane Foster.”

Darcy narrows her eyes at him. “Why?”

“I work for S.H.I.E.L.D. We need her to come in on a consultation.”

She purses her lips, her eyes still narrowed in suspicion. “You’re not going to take my iPod again, are you?”

Clint suppresses the grin that threatens to form. “No,” he says. “Though I may borrow it for the plane ride back. I love Zeppelin.”

Darcy eyes him for another moment. Then she says, “As you should,” before turning toward the back of the room and bellowing, “Jane!”

A few second pass and then a door at the back of the room opens. Jane pops her head out, irritation clear on her face. “Darcy, what—” Jane stops as she sees Clint. “Can I help you?” she asks, as suspicious as Darcy was before.

“My name’s Clint Barton,” he says. “I work for S.H.I.E.L.D. We need you to come to New York.”

Jane steps out of the back room, a notebook clutched in her hands. She sighs once and says, “You people are really persistent. I already told the other man that I—”

Clint stills. “What other man?”

“The tall one,” Darcy says. “Weird accent. He was kind of a dick.” Glancing at Jane, she says, “What was his name?”

Jane answers. “Victor. Victor von Doom.”

_Did you even bother to watch the footage from Stark?_

_Can you stand in the middle of a giant fireball and not die?_

Body tense, Clint takes a step toward Jane. “When was he here?” he asks.

“About an hour ago,” she says. “Why?”

Cursing, Clint reaches into his pocket for his phone and then he calls Transport. “Prep the plane,” he says. “Now. We’re coming in. Doom is somewhere in town.” Returning the phone to his pocket, he slides his gun from his shoulder holster and turns to Jane. “We need to leave,” he says. “You’re both in danger.”

“Danger?” Jane frowns as she steps through a small gap between two whiteboards. “From whom?”

Clint ducks back under the table with the computers and moves toward the hallway. “From Doom,” he says. “He kidnapped my partner, tortured her. He nearly blew up Thor’s brother—”

He hears Jane draw in a breath. “Thor? Is he here?”

“He’s in New York,” Clint says, peering down the hall to the door beyond. He sees nothing in the hall but darkness. Turning back to Jane and Darcy, he says, “Doom is dangerous and he’s crazy, and if we don’t leave now, he will kill us all.”

Darcy stares at him, her eyes again wide. Then she turns and grabs Jane’s hand, pulling her toward the exit. 

“Wait,” Jane says. “At least let me grab—”

“No,” Darcy says. 

When they reach him, they pull their coats from the nearby rack, and Clint starts down the hall, his gun extended. At the exterior door, he pauses and draws in a breath. Then he opens the door and looks outside. The path to his SUV is clear, but at the end of the street two hundred feet away stands Doom, wearing his armor.

His eyes on Doom, Clint says, “Can either of you drive a stick?”

“I can,” Darcy says.

Clint pulls his keys from the front pocket of his jeans and passes them to Darcy. “My car’s the black SUV across the street. When I say, both of you run for the car. I’ll distract him and then follow you.”

“You’re not driving?” Darcy asks.

“No,” Clint says as he opens the door. “I’ll be shooting.” He looks at Darcy and then strides into the road, his gun raised and aimed at Doom. 

*

In the dark of Omsk, Natasha and Loki stalk Luchkov. He staggers down the street three blocks ahead and one block over with his two bodyguards and one of the young women from the club. At the next intersection, the group turns right, and Natasha points to a side alley. She and Loki begin to traverse the narrow corridors between the buildings, cutting a diagonal swath across the city to Luchkov. 

At the junction of two alleys, Natasha halts, the dot on her phone beginning to come their way. She hands the phone to Loki, who places it in his jacket pocket, and then she reaches into her holster for two of her flashbangs. Crouching down, Natasha peers around the wall; she sees Luchkov and the others one block away. Cradling the flashbangs in her cast, she pulls her baton from her boot, unfolds it, and places it against the wall. The woman with Luchkov giggles. 

Natasha waits another few seconds and then she throws the flashbangs.

In the smoke and the chaos, Natasha hears the woman shriek and run screaming down the alley. Grabbing her baton, she runs into the smoke and strikes the first guard that she sees in the knee. He falls and she kicks him in the face, and he lays on the ground, still. Luchkov yells. Natasha spins, kicking him into the nearby brick wall, and as he grunts in pain, she drops into a crouch and sweeps the legs out from under the second guard. When he tumbles beside her, she strikes him in the face with the baton, and he, too, falls unconscious. 

The smoke dissipates, and Natasha looks up to find Luchkov standing before her, a gun in his hand and pointed at her. “I had hoped he would have killed you already,” he says, anger twisting his face. “But I do not deny that I relish the opportunity to kill you myself. Drop the weapon and stand up slowly.”

Her eyes on the gun, Natasha places the baton on the ground before her and then stands, her back to Luchkov. She eases the taser disk from beneath her cast.

“Turn around,” Luchkov demands. “And get your hands up.”

Rolling her eyes, Natasha turns and raises her hands into the air. Luchkov looks at her and then his eyes dart to her right hand.

“What is in your hand?” he asks. He raises the gun higher in the air.

Natasha shrugs. “A penny,” she says. “You know, find a penny, pick it up. I could always use more luck.”

Luchkov takes a step toward her. “Drop it. Drop it now.”

Natasha shrugs again and tosses the disk at his feet. Electricity blooms from the disk, snaking up his legs, and Luchkov begins to twitch from the shocks. Dropping down, Natasha grabs her baton and knocks the gun from his hand. It clatters to the ground as the electricity fades. After a beat, Luchkov slumps back against the wall, unconscious.

Collapsing the baton, Natasha slides it back into her left boot. From the corners of her eyes, she sees Loki stroll towards her. “I do so love watching you work,” he says, the wicked grin on his face once more. Her mouth twitches with the start of a smile. He comes to a stop beside her, and they both glance down at Luchkov. A grimace crosses Loki’s face, and he says, “Where do you want to take him?”

Natasha considers a moment and then says, “The roof of the club. The music inside will drown him out.” 

Loki nods and holds out his hand to her. As she clasps it, he reaches down and grabs Luchkov, and then the air crackles, the familiar green light flashes, and they are on the roof of the club. Peering around the roof, Natasha points to a collection of metal pipes in the near corner. “Put him there,” she says.

Lifting Luchkov with one hand, Loki carries him to the corner and drops him next to the pipes. Natasha follows, sliding one of the plastic restraints from the back pocket of her jeans. She wraps one loop around Luchkov’s right wrist and lifts his arm while Loki raises his left hand. Natasha wraps the restraint around the pipe and secures the second loop to Luchkov’s wrist. Pausing for a moment, she looks at him and then she searches his pockets for the tracer. 

Standing, Natasha steps back, slipping the tracer into her pocket, and then she and Loki stare at Luchkov again. “How long do you think he’ll be unconscious?” Loki asks.

Natasha shrugs. “Most are usually out for ten minutes. But it depends. How drunk did he seem when you talked to him?”

“His face was red and he was sweating.”

Natasha grimaces now. She crouches before Luchkov and regards him for a moment before slapping him in the face. He groans, and she slaps him again. His eyelids quiver and then he opens his eyes. A beat passes and he focuses on her; his face flushes in rage. He tries to reach her, but the restraint holds, and he curses his confinement. Then he spots Loki behind her and his eyes widen.

“You,” he says, looking at Loki. “You said you were going to kill her.”

Natasha turns to Loki and raises a brow. “You told him you were going to kill me?”

Loki smiles at her. “Yes.”

Now Natasha turns to Luchkov. “And you believed him?”

Luchkov shifts on the ground and looks away. “He was convincing,” he mutters.

Shaking her head, Natasha stands. She waits for Luchkov to look at her, and when he finally does, she says, “You know who I am, and you know what I’ll do to you if you don’t answer my questions, so I’m only going to ask them once. Do you understand?”

Luchkov looks away. The silence endures for thirty seconds, and then Natasha walks over to his bound wrists and grabs the thumb of his right hand. He eyes her now; a drop of sweat rolls down his face. She stares at him as she says, “Do you know how painful it is to have all of the fingers broken on one hand?”

Luchkov shakes his head.

Natasha waits a moment and then she breaks his thumb.

Luchkov screams, and Natasha sees Loki wave a hand. The air shimmers around them as he casts an illusion. Turning back to Luchkov, she says, “Tell me what you know about Victor von Doom or I’ll break another.”

“I know nothing,” he says through gritted teeth.

“You know he’s not interested in guns,” Loki says. “At least not in Russia. So what does interest him?”

Again, Luchkov stays silent, and, again, Natasha grabs one of his fingers. As she tightens her grip on his pinky, he says, “Science. He… He worked for many years with Anton Vanko.”

Natasha stills at the name. Her first encounter with Tony had come when Anton’s son, Ivan, had attempted to defeat Iron Man. She remembers reading the files that S.H.I.E.L.D. had had on Anton, how he had worked with Tony’s father on the original Arc Reactor before being deported back to Russia. Natasha glances at Loki. Doom with an Arc Reactor, or even part of one, could be more than disastrous.

“What did they work on?” she asks Luchkov.

He shakes his head. “I do not know. I do not care about science.”

“Who would know? Anton’s dead. Ivan’s dead. Who else would know what they worked on?”

Luchkov shakes his head again. Natasha sighs and tightens her grip on his pinky, but then Loki says, “Someone from the Academy would.” Natasha looks at Loki and he continues, “When he said that Doom’s interests didn’t lie with guns, I countered by saying that Doom had mentioned the Academy to me before. He didn’t deny the interest. In fact,” he says now, looking down at Luchkov, “that’s when he mentioned Anna.”

Natasha returns her gaze to Luchkov. She sees him grow pale, and she knows that Loki is right: Anna Volenskaya would know what Doom and Vanko had worked on, would know whether Doom had his own Arc Reactor or something equally as destructive. “Where is she?” she asks. 

More sweat begins to bead upon Luchkov’s face. Dropping his eyes to the ground, he says, “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do,” Natasha says. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out Luchkov’s phone. Holding it before him, she says, “You’ve emailed her five times this year. Do you seriously expect me to believe that you have no idea where she is right now?”

Luchkov stays silent, still avoiding her gaze. Natasha sighs again and looks at Loki; she holds out a hand, and he conjures a smile knife. Grabbing the knife, she crouches in front of Luchkov and holds the blade before him.

“Did you know,” she says quietly, “that Anna trained me in the Red Room? She was the original Black Widow. She gave the name to me when I turned seventeen.” Natasha rotates the knife in the air; she watches the moonlight gleam off the lustrous edge. “Knives were her favorite. She loved the intimacy of the kill at the tip of a knife.” Natasha pauses now and places the knife beneath Luchkov’s chin. She presses up and forces him to look at her. “She gave me my first one when I was four,” she says. “It wasn’t any bigger than your thumb, but it was sharp. Like this one.” Natasha presses the blade further into his neck; a drop of blood appears at the tip.

He sweats harder now. “She’ll kill me if I tell you.”

Natasha shakes her head. “You don’t know that for sure. Because if you tell me, I’ll let you live. And then you can call her and warn her that I’m coming.” Luchkov’s eyes widen at that. “If you tell her,” she says, “she may be merciful. She may even be thankful. But if you don’t tell me,” and here Natasha applies more pressure to the knife and Luchkov winces and closes his eyes. “If you don’t tell me,” she continues, “you know that I will kill you, and I’ll still find her. But then she won’t know that I’m coming. And then she won’t be able to kill me. And that’s what you want, isn’t it? You want me dead? So tell me, Georgi, who else is better equipped to kill me than the woman who made me?” 

Luchkov shudders. He opens his eyes, and Natasha sees tears pooling in them, obscuring the dim brown of his irises. She tenses, her grip tight on the knife, but then he says, a tremor in his voice, “Anna is in St. Petersburg. She lives near the Summer Garden.”

Natasha looks at him, but his gaze does not waver. After a moment, she nods and pulls the knife away. His eyes fall shut again as she stands. Turning to Loki, she finds him watching her, his face impassive. Handing him the knife, she says, “We’re done here.”

Loki stares at the knife and then vanishes it before holding out his hand to her. When her hand closes around his own, the air crackles, the light flashes, and they teleport away.

* 

In Galisteo, Clint stands in the street, aims, and fires at Doom. Each bullet strikes the faceplate that Doom wears, but they do not stop him. As he starts down the street, Clint turns to Darcy and Jane and yells, “Go!”

They scramble from the door and across the street to Clint’s car. Clint sees purple lightning crackle around Doom’s hands, and he shifts his aim, shooting now at the joints, at the neck, at the shoulders, elbows, and knees. One of his bullets penetrates and hits Doom in the right knee, staggering him. As he stumbles, Clint turns and runs for the car, diving into the backseat through the door that Jane has left open for him. He slams the door shut behind him, and Darcy takes off, the tires squealing as they shoot down the street.

“Where am I going?” she yells as she directs the car through the only stoplight in town.

“GPS,” Clint says. A small console on the dash brightens. “Directions to Transport, Galisteo.”

The GPS begins to guide Darcy away from town. Clint reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone, and tosses it to Jane. “Call Transport,” he says as he turns to the back and pulls his case into the seat beside him. “Tell them Doom is in pursuit and we need intercept.”

Jane nods and begins the call. Opening the case, Clint retrieves his bow and quiver of arrows. Then he opens the sunroof. He sees Darcy eye him in the rearview mirror, panic clear on her face. “Just breathe and drive,” he says, his voice steady, his eyes calm. “Don’t worry about how fast you’re going or what I’m doing. Just drive and get us there safely.”

Darcy nods. She looks back at the road, and Clint stands and eases his body through the sunroof. He braces himself against the backseat and then faces Doom, who trails them, one hundred yards away, flying through the air and gaining on them with each second. 

Clint selects an explosive-tipped arrow, aims, and fires. Doom does not bother to dodge so slight a thing, and the arrow explodes on impact. The blast staggers Doom, and he tumbles through the air for a few seconds before straightening and continuing the pursuit. 

Clint pulls out two more arrows and fires the first, a normal one that Doom dodges, and then the second right in the path of Doom’s swerve. The arrow strikes Doom in the face, and the tip bursts, acid pouring forth onto the mask. Nothing happens for half a minute, but as Clint selects another arrow, Doom howls and pulls off the faceplate, dropping it to the ground far below. 

Prepping the next arrow, Clint sees Doom narrow his eyes, and then rockets fire in his hands and feet and he blasts forward. Clint allows him to draw closer, two hundred feet, one hundred feet away, and then he shoots the arrow. It sails forward and explodes before Doom, sending a cloud of tear gas at him, but Doom dodges and sails high into the air, beyond the reach of Clint’s arrows. 

Clint collapses his bow and stores it back in the quiver, and then he pulls his gun from his holster and fires at Doom. He strikes the chest plate and takes aim at Doom’s face, but before he can fire, he hears Darcy and Jane scream. Turning, he sees a telephone pole a quarter of a mile before them twist from the ground and rise in the air. Ducking down into the car, he shoves the gun back in his holster and says to Jane, “Get in back and close the sunroof.” As she scrambles between the seats, he says to Darcy, “Push the seat back as far as you can and then sit forward. I’ll slide in behind you.” 

Through the windshield, Clint watches as the telephone pole comes barreling toward them. With a shaking hand, Darcy slides the seat back. Clint eases behind her and grabs the steering wheel, jerking the car to the right. The pole barrels by them, scraping against the driver’s side and dislodging the mirror. 

Clint glances in the rearview mirror. He sees the pole swoop through the air and then start toward the car again as Darcy scrambles into the passenger seat. Shifting into fifth gear, Clint slams down on the gas pedal; the car shoots forward, and he reaches for his seatbelt, ordering Darcy and Jane to do the same. 

“How long until Transport arrives?” he asks Jane as he pulls his seat forward.

“Two minutes,” she says. 

Clint nods and pushes down on the gas. Eighty, ninety, one hundred on the mercifully empty road leading from Galisteo, but still the telephone pole gains. Then Clint hears a clang on the roof, and he knows that Doom has landed on the top of the car. 

Shifting to neutral, Clint slams on the brakes and twists the car to the left. He hears the screech of metal as Doom slides along the roof. The tires squeal as the SUV begins to skid. Through the window, Clint sees the telephone pole waver and then fall. Shifting into gear again, Clint releases the brake and presses down once more on the gas. Doom topples off the roof, but his rockets fire and he flies alongside the car. 

Clint twists the wheel to the left again. The SUV crashes into Doom, but he grabs the handle on Clint’s door with his right hand. In his left, Clint sees purple energy bloom. Sliding his gun from his holster, he yells to Darcy, “Roll down the window!” As the window powers down, Clint sees Transport in the distance and he jerks the wheel to the right, slamming on the brakes once more. Doom slides forward until he is level with Clint, and then Clint raises the gun as Doom lifts his hand, and they both fire.

The bullet disintegrates in the energy that strikes Clint in the chest. He starts to gasp for breath as Doom smiles and raises his hand for a second strike, but then Darcy thrusts her arm in front of Clint and fires her taser. The electrodes land on Doom’s face, and he screams before twisting and flying away. Clint sees Transport give chase, and he has just enough time to bring the car to a screeching halt before the world around him spins and fades to black.

*


	24. A Wet Seed Wild

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the dark hotel room, Natasha sheds her gear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **This chapter contains extensive sexual content.** The title comes from a line from _As I Lay Dying_ by William Faulkner: "I feel like a wet seed wild in the hot blind earth."

In the dark hotel room, Natasha sheds her gear. She drops her baton by the door. She pulls the binoculars from her jacket and places them on one of the tables by the bed and then she pulls the rubles from her jacket and drops them to the floor by her feet. Continuing into the room, she slips off her jacket. Next comes her gun, placed on the radiator by the window. She scatters the remaining flashbangs on the windowsill and then she eases off her holster, draping it across the lone chair by the foot of the bed. Last, she slides a hand into the back pocket of her jeans and tugs out the remaining plastic restraint, and it is then that she looks at Loki.

He stands in the darkness by the door, and Natasha knows that he watches her though all she can see of him is the end of the makila and the gleaming tips of his shoes. Leaning over, she lowers the zipper on her left boot, and he says, “Were you truthful with Luchkov? Do you think Anna will try to kill you?”

Natasha lifts her foot from the boot. Bending her leg at the knee, she reaches behind her to remove her sock. “Yes,” she says. “She tried before.” She pauses, drops the sock, and then says, “Estonia.” 

The moonlight shines on the burgundy polish on her toes.

Leaning over again, her fingers brush the zipper on her right boot, and he says, “Do you think she will succeed, now that she’ll have a warning?”

Natasha removes the boot and she removes the sock and then she says, “No.”

“Why not?” he asks, his voice quiet but gliding to her easily along the stillness of the room. “If she made you, if she knows you so well, as you claim.”

Natasha reaches into the front pocket of her jeans and withdraws her gloss. She drops it onto the chair and then she looks into the shadows and says, “Because I won’t be alone.”

Loki steps from the darkness then. Natasha feels her heart skip; she feels her nerves flutter as he props the makila against the wall. He pulls off one shoe and sock, then the next set, and it is then that he starts toward her. He lowers a hand into the pocket of his jacket and removes her phone, placing it on the table beside the binoculars. Moving closer, he loosens the knot of his tie. Loki tugs on the end, and Natasha hears the silk whisper against the crisp cotton of his shirt. The tie traces a sinuous arc through the air as it falls beside her feet. 

Loki stops before her. She lifts a hand and opens the next button of her shirt. His jaw clenches as he stares down at her; she smiles and eases open the fifth and sixth. He moves then, shrugging off his jacket and laying it on the chair beside them. His fingers flick the clasp of one cuff and then the other before starting down his shirt. Natasha feels her blood burn as she watches him. She wants to touch him, she wants to feel him, but she cannot. This is no game, but it is a battle, it is a seduction, and she will win.

She slides by Loki, and his eyes follow her. Natasha stops before the bed, her back to him; she peers at him over her shoulder. She smiles again at the look in his eyes as she removes her shirt. She stands before him for a moment before tossing the shirt toward him and turning away.

He moves closer. Natasha closes her eyes at the feel of him behind her, the distance between them an inch, no more, but still too far. Opening her eyes, she sees his shirt drop onto the bed before her. As Loki draws back his hand, his fingers catch on one of her curls, and Natasha knows that she has won.

She tilts her head; she sees his pulse pound in his throat. His fingertips skim across her shoulder, and she shivers. She moves her hand to the belt around her waist; he caresses the length of her arm. As her hand falls upon the buckle, he bends his head toward her and says, “No.”

Natasha meets his eyes. Her breath catches in her throat at his expression, and she lets her hand fall. Loki wraps his other arm around her waist, slides open the buckle, and begins to pull the belt free. He drops the belt on top of his shirt and then he hooks a finger around one of the empty loops before tugging her around to face him. And she cannot breathe as he snaps open the button on her jeans; her thoughts skip, they skitter through her mind as he eases down the zipper; and Natasha knows that he has won when he slips a hand inside and rubs one cool finger against her.

She stares at him. The wicked grin appears on his face, and then she grabs his belt and pulls and they fall back onto the bed and finally, finally Loki is kissing her. Natasha arches against him; her hand fumbles on his belt, and she curses her cast for denying her the ability to touch him thoroughly. He draws back and kneels before her, grabbing the waist of her jeans. His eyes on her, he begins to pull them down, his knuckles skating against the soft skin of her thighs, her calves, the soles of her feet, and she shivers once more.

As soon as she is free, Natasha darts up and claims his mouth again; she palms him through his pants, the fabric smooth beneath her hand. Loki groans as she moves, as she works open the belt. He wraps his arms around her to unclasp her bra, and then they switch and she removes her bra while he removes his pants. Glancing down, she arches a brow at the fact that he wears nothing beneath, and he smirks.

Natasha reaches for him again; she pulls and twists until he lies flat on his back before her; then she stands on the bed and takes a moment to look at him. Loki is pale and he is sleek and his muscles flex as he sits, as he curves his fingers around her underwear and draws them down. She steps out of them and he lies back once more and takes a moment to look at her.

The rune on her face tingles as she kneels, as she sets her knees around his waist. Loki reaches for her now, and she feels sparks again where he touches her; she sees the glimmer of green energy as he cradles her breasts, as he slides both thumbs across her nipples. He moves his right hand lower, and Natasha watches him watch her as he caresses her, as first one finger and then another slips inside and finds a rhythm that makes her body start to hum.

She leans forward, bracing her right hand beside his head. Their eyes meet, and his gaze conveys desire, but also a tenderness that stills her momentarily. In the stillness, Loki raises his left hand and draws her down toward him where he kisses her, and her fingers curl into the blankets, and she wants to rush, she cannot wait. There will be time for waiting later, but not now, not now.

As if he knows, she feels his right hand move between them. Breaking the kiss, Natasha eases back. She looks at him, and she sees New York. She looks at him, and she sees Tokyo, she sees India, she sees Venice and Switzerland. Loki guides her down, and she sees him, here, now, in Omsk, beneath her, before her, and then she shifts and she feels him inside her, she shifts and his eyes fall shut as they come together.

Natasha rocks forward, finding the right angle, and then she moves. His left hand grips her hip; his right her knee. Rolling her hips, she leans toward him again and places her hand on his chest. “Look at me,” she says. 

Loki opens his eyes. She sees only a thin ring of blue, the pupils so wide. He stares at her as she moves, as she tilts her hips and gasps at the sensation. And Natasha feels, she feels so much. She slides her hand up his chest and curls her fingers around his neck, then she tugs and Loki sits. Wrapping her legs around his waist, she rocks against him, and his arms encircle her. She arches back, resting against his hands that are strong, so strong, as they hold her. 

He moves closer, his lips hovering above her mouth. She stares at him as she continues to rock, the tempo slow, but the angle deep. Natasha wraps her right arm around his neck; she presses herself against him. His hand slides up her back, and he buries his fingers in her hair. She kisses the side of his face, nips the line of his jaw; his hand tightens its hold on her hair, and she smiles.

Loki tenses beneath her and turns them, laying her on her back. Above her now, he changes the angle and increases the speed, and Natasha moans, heat gathering within her. He hooks her left leg around his arm, deepening the thrust, and she moans again. She hears his breath catch in his throat, and she reaches for him, her hand falling on his arm, his muscles taut beneath her palm. Her mind spins; she feels a conflagration deep within her as he moves faster, as her nails dig into his bicep, as he stares down at her.

“Natasha…” he says, and she breaks at the tremor in his voice, crying out. Her right leg tightens around his waist, her body quivers, and Loki says her name again, the three syllables a prayer, an incantation that glides into her mind and echoes as he begins to shudder above her. 

And Natasha does not believe in miracles, she does not believe in happy endings, but in this moment, she marvels at the twists that led them here, and she hopes that Loki will stay, that fate will not take him from her, not yet, not before they know tranquility and mercy, before they know love, before the world crashes down upon them for the sins of their pasts and the sins they will be sure to commit in the future.

For this, Natasha will hope.

*

Snow falls as Loki climbs the steps to the church in Switzerland. Pale sunlight from the early dawn glistens on the ice covering the gravestones. He hears nothing save the rustle of the wind. In the alcove to the left of the church, he sees the familiar saint, her face glazed with dew, her body beseeching two candles flickering on the worn table. A woman sits on the bench before the statue, and Loki knows that she waits for him, but he hesitates, and it is then that Frigga turns.

Slowly, he approaches. Frigga watches him, her gaze composed. At the entrance to the alcove, Loki stops and looks at her. She wears her silver tunic as of old, her auburn hair still piled high on her head, but she seems older now and he knows that he is the cause. 

“Are you real?” he asks.

“Yes,” she says, but he remains by the entrance, the question of possibility still in his eyes. She smiles at him. “Have you forgotten who first taught you magic?”

Loki shakes his head, but still he does not move. “Why?” he asks. The word dissipates into the air, too fragile for even the slight breeze. He tries again. “Why are you here?”

“I desired to see you,” she says. “I missed my son.”

His hands shake, and he clenches them by his sides as he turns away. In the distance, he sees the inn and the window to the room in which he and Natasha had stayed. He wonders if he is here or if this exists only in his mind, Frigga capable of both. “Why now?” he asks.

“Because now is when you would let me,” she says. She pauses, and, in her pause, Loki feels her gaze upon him, searching. He feels exposed, laid bare beneath her, though he wears his armor, though he turns from her, though he hides. He tenses, uncertain of what she searches for, but unwilling to expose this night to her, his regard for Natasha his own. After a moment, she says, “Will you sit with me? I will not keep you for long.”

Loki nods and turns back toward her. He closes the distance between them and sits on the edge of the bench. They stare at the candle flames. From the corners of his eyes, he sees Frigga turn to him.

“This place is special to you,” she says.

“Yes.”

She gazes at the saint, at the table and the candles, and then she says, “Do you remember the day we walked beyond the city to the edge of the mountain? You wanted feathers from Munin. You would not tell me why, but still we went to the raven to request them of him.”

Loki nods. 

“Do you remember his response to your request?”

Loki nods again. The past rushes upon him, it washes over him. He remembers his fear at the darkness of the rock upon which Munin dwelled, the lustrous eye of the bird as he peered down at Loki from his perch. “He denied me,” he says. “He said that one so young could not fathom the dangers of eternal memory nor possess anything worth such remembrance.”

Frigga holds out her hand. Upon her palm lies an ebony feather from Munin. “I do not know all you have endured,” she says. “I hope someday you will find me worthy of your confidence and will share with me your life once again. Until then,” she says, and here she pauses, reaching out. At her touch, Loki closes his eyes. He remembers how she had held his hand as they returned to the palace, the comfort that he found in her grasp. Now she lays the feather on his palm, and he wants her to stay, but he wants her to go. “Until then,” she says, “I will wait for you. Every day I will wait for you.”

He feels the feather in his hand, dense with memory. Frigga stands and lays her hand upon his head; she kisses his brow, and tears begin to burn his eyes. His lungs sting, but Loki cannot draw in breath, Frigga rendering him motionless. 

When he opens his eyes, he is once more in the hotel. Natasha lies beside him, peering at him through the light of the approaching day. “What happened?” she asks, her voice quiet.

“Frigga,” he says. “My mother.” He swallows and then breathes in slowly. Raising his hand, he says, “She gave me this.”

Natasha inspects the feather. It is as lustrous as the eye of Munin, as the deep of space. “Why?” 

He looks at her now. “So that I would remember.”

Loki lays the feather on the bed between them, this moment worth remembering. He reaches out and draws her closer to him. Resting his head beside her own, he closes his eyes and threads his fingers into her hair; the color reminds him of the sunsets that he saw in Hanoi, as he searched the world for answers that lay in her. 

_This is not a game._

Loki breathes in. He feels Natasha beside him, her presence solid and sure. He never believed in peace before, his soul the soul of a monster, but then he never believed in love either, not for him, and now the possibility stares him in the face, it waits so close beside him, so in this moment, he allows himself to believe in peace, he allows himself to believe that, when he wakes, Natasha will still be there, she will still be solid and sure and not the deadly mirage that he fears fate dangles before him still for the all the wrongs he has done, all the lies he has told, and all the people he has killed. 

For this, Loki will hope.

*


	25. The Hot Blind Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They stand before the flat, an elegant, innocuous flat, one block from the Summer Garden. Loki wears his armor, save for his helmet and staff. He thought no place in the universe could unnerve him more than the Void, but he hesitates at what lurks inside this building.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, the chapter title comes from _As I Lay Dying_ by William Faulkner: "I feel like a wet seed wild in the hot blind earth."

When Loki wakes again, the day has dawned but the bed beside him is empty save for the feather from Munin. He stares at the feather, his heart beginning to pound in his chest, the night before already slipping away. Sitting, he finds Natasha in the chair beside the window. She wears one of her shirts and she stares at the grey sky, her legs curled beneath her, her phone in her lap and a knife in her right hand.

“Natasha?” 

Loki knows that she hears him, but she does not look at him. Instead, she glances down at the knife and says, “Torture won’t work. She won’t break. Neither will manipulation. She’ll expect it. Money means nothing to her, and she’s not afraid to die.”

Her tone unsettles him. He remembers how she spoke of Anna to Luchkov the night before. _She loved the intimacy of the kill at the tip of a knife._ Loki knows that his presence will deter Anna from physically killing Natasha, but he also knows that death comes in many forms, not just physical, and if anyone has the ability to strip Natasha of her equanimity, to threaten her security and sense of self, it is Anna.

_But you hesitate. Why?_

Natasha turns her gaze once more to the window. He sees her watch him in the reflection of the glass, the look in her eyes familiar, one worn by him, by her, by the Captain as he watched Loki in the cage: an elegy for loss. He knows that Doom possessing an Arc Reactor requires swift action, but he fears the cost of the response. “Then what?” he asks.

Natasha looks away. She twists the knife in her hands and then stands and moves toward her suitcase. Placing the knife on the table, she says, “Information.” Natasha sifts through the case, her back to him. “I have information about the only person she ever cared about. She’ll tell us what she knows about Doom if I tell her what I know.”

“Information about what?”

Loki watches as Natasha pulls her uniform from the suitcase. She stares down at it and runs her thumb across the symbol of the Widow on the belt. Her voice is quiet when she says, “About where I buried him,” and he feels the distance between them, farther than the length of the room, instead the span of years and the blood shed by both their hands.

A moment passes and then she places the uniform on the table beside the knife and removes a pair of jeans and a black sweater from the suitcase. Turning now, her eyes find his, and Loki knows that there is something she is not telling him. 

“We should leave soon,” she says as she moves around the bed. She grabs her phone from the chair and continues to the bathroom. “We don’t want to give her too much time to prepare.”

Loki nods as she passes by. The door to the bathroom shuts softly behind Natasha, and, through the wall, he hears her move, he hears her draw in a halting breath, and then the shower starts.

He closes his eyes. 

She will tell him. She will tell him.

He feels the feather beside him, and he reaches out and runs a finger along the smooth barbs.

She will tell him. She will tell him.

He looks at her uniform draped across the table, at the symbol on the belt, at the knife beneath.

Will she tell him?

*

He waits for her to tell him as she gathers her possessions in Omsk, as they prepare to leave for St. Petersburg, but all she says is that S.H.I.E.L.D. has narrowed the possible residences for Anna down to four around the Summer Garden.

He waits for her to tell him as they arrive in St. Petersburg, as they investigate the residences, as they identify the likeliest one, but all she says is how Anna would expect her to slip in during the middle of the night and how they should return when evening descends upon the neighborhood instead.

He waits for her to tell him as she unpacks in the new hotel, as she dons her uniform, but all she says is how he should conceal them even after they have teleported inside, at least until they see Anna directly. 

He waits for her to tell him as she holsters her guns, as she places her flashbangs and taser disks in her belt, as she slides her knives into concealed pockets on her boots, but she says nothing and moves silently to the door. He follows her, and as her hand falls onto the handle, he lays his own upon hers and says, “Tell me.”

Natasha stills beneath his touch and Loki sees her close her eyes, but she says nothing and then opens the door and walks away.

* 

They stand before the flat, an elegant, innocuous flat, one block from the Summer Garden. Loki wears his armor, save for his helmet and staff. He thought no place in the universe could unnerve him more than the Void, but he hesitates at what lurks inside this building. Glancing at Natasha, he sees that she stares at the front door, her face blank, her eyes again devoid of emotion. 

Loki wants to burn the flat to the ground. He wants to drop the woman inside into the Void and laugh as she screams.

He turns to Natasha now, stepping between her and the flat. He knows that he looms, but he has to know. He has to know what causes her to withdraw from him, what causes her armor to crack as she looks up at him.

“Tell me,” he says.

She looks at him, but does not respond.

“Tell me,” he says again, bringing his hands to her shoulders, wanting to shake her, wanting to hold her.

She stays silent, and he feels the silence as a knife in his chest.

“Tell me,” he says again, and he hears his voice crack.

Natasha stares at the swoop of gold along his chest plate. She raises her right hand; her fingers hover above his armor as she says, “Sometimes… sometimes I think this is still a dream. You came to me in July, and you changed my life. So… quickly. So completely. How could this be real?”

“Because it is,” he says. 

She looks at him, the wonder gone, her gaze instead intense. “Whatever she says in there, whatever happens,” she says, “don’t kill her. Just… just let her speak. This is the only way that she’ll talk.”

“Natasha—”

“Please.” She whispers the word, and Loki cannot breathe. “Please trust me.”

_But you hesitate_ , she had said. _Why?_

_Only because this will cause you pain._

Loki nods. He can’t not, not as she stands before him now, not as she looked at him the night before as he turned her around to face him, not as she sat in a café in Omsk and told him that this was not a game. 

Loki nods. He can’t not, not as he knows that he loves her. 

He nods, and Natasha closes her eyes and breathes in slowly. Then she steps back and holds out her right hand. As her fingers curl around his, Loki feels them tremble, and he wants to leave, he wants to take them to Paris so that they can drink too much wine and eat too many croissants and not think about S.H.I.E.L.D. or spying or Doom or Asgard and he can compare her smile to the one worn by the Mona Lisa and he can buy her another dress and they can dance down the halls of Versailles and they can finally, finally know peace.

But he teleports them inside instead, and they begin their search.

*

On the second floor, at the end of a long, dark hall, they find a closed door, and Loki knows that Anna Volenskaya waits inside. Though concealed, they have come across no others in the house, no guards, no servants, just open, dark rooms filled with refined furnishings. Rage kindles within him at the arrogance, at the surety of this woman and her power over Natasha, so, when they reach the closed door, he rears back and kicks it off its hinges.

A woman sits in a chair in the middle of a room as elegant as all the others. She has long brown hair and the eyes of a predator. She raises the gun in her hands and fires at Loki, but the bullets bounce off his armor as he crosses the room, as he reaches her and rips the gun away. Wrapping a hand around her throat, he pushes her back against the chair, and he sees Anna smile.

“Victor was right,” she says in English. Her voice bears the same husky tone as Natasha’s, but none of the sorrow, only cool calculation. “You do care for her.”

Loki tightens his hand around her neck. 

“You shouldn’t,” she continues. He sees pity in her gaze, pity for him. “She was not made for love.”

“Then she is perfect,” he says, bearing down upon this woman, this monster, before him. “For I am not someone to be loved.”

Anna smiles again. Loki tenses, but then he hears Natasha move behind him and he remembers his promise. He stares at Anna a moment longer. She raises a brow at him, and he knows that he will relish the day when he can return and cause her to suffer as Natasha suffered. As if she knows, Anna smirks at him, and he releases her, stepping back and turning toward Natasha.

She stands by the door, staring at Anna, her face calm once more. Loki moves to the side and leans against a table, his blood burning. Anna still watches him; she still studies him. He glares at her, but she does not relent, the smirk still on her face. After a moment, she turns her attention to Natasha. “I am eager to see how you plan to persuade me to reveal what I know about Victor,” she says, straightening in the chair. “What leverage could you possibly have to coerce me with?”

“Something you desire,” Natasha says.

“I desire little.”

“You desire this.”

Now Anna smiles. “You are certain of this?” she asks, relishing the conversation as much as Loki had when he was in the cage in the Carrier standing before Natasha as she pretended to barter with him for Barton. 

Natasha nods. Anna regards her through narrowed eyes. Then she says, “Then tell me, Natalia, if you are so certain, what do I desire?”

_So tell me, Natasha, if you know so much about me, what do I feel?_

Natasha did not hesitate to answer Loki then, cutting to the heart of him as they sat before the church in Switzerland, and she does not hesitate to answer Anna now. “You desire me,” she says, and Loki feels his world begin to shift.

_Do you think Anna will try to kill you?_

_Yes_ , she had said. _She tried before._

“You?” Anna asks, her eyes, the eyes of a hunter, glittering. “What do I desire about you?”

_But two days into the mission, I was taken by agents from the Red Room._

_Retribution for my defection._

Natasha looks at her, she looks straight at Anna, and she says, “You desire to break me.”

And the words hang in the air, the sharp promise of ‘break’ echoing in the silence, and Loki recalls the way that Natasha had turned her back to him as she spun her web of deceit, as she told him her lies about the only man for whom Anna Volenskaya cared. He remembers the way her breath had caught in her throat as she shut the bathroom door, refusing to tell him this, her true plan. He remembers the elegy in her eyes, the mourning for loss.

How could he have not known?

_You weave your web of words over men, and, lost in their flush of power, their triumph over so small a thing, they fall into your trap and are ensnared._

“I could break you anytime I wanted,” Anna says. “Why would this interest me enough now so that I would reveal to you what I know?”

Natasha hesitates, but then she looks at Loki.

_Knives were her favorite._

“Because of him,” she says, and her armor slips. He hears the hitch of breath in her throat as she looks at him.

_She loved the intimacy of the kill at the tip of a knife._

“Because I love him.”

_Please. Please trust me._

_This is the only way._

And looking at her, he remembers the first time that he saw her, standing before him in the Carrier, standing as she stands now, willing to let him revel in the transgressions of her past so that she could obtain the information she desired. And he remembers her in her apartment, standing as she stands now, willing to let him into her life so that she could fulfill her promise to Odin, revealing to him the truth about her sins and her childhood and her time in the Red Room so that she could help him, so that she could save him. 

_Children suffered there, so I chose not to be a child. I chose not to love._

_It was just a game, just a part to play._

Loki stares at Natasha.

_This is not a game._

Isn’t it? Isn’t it, for two such as them, raised in lies and accustomed to deceit? They know only games; they know only manipulation. Even now, even now, they are as they were, he in the cage and she manipulating him for information. 

They were fools to believe that they could change, that they could escape the past. The past is a Red Room. The past is a Void. 

There is no way out.

“He did not know,” Anna says. 

Natasha shakes her head, and Loki sees her hands tremble. He feels tears form in his eyes, and he turns away. And it shouldn’t hurt, but it does. It shouldn’t hurt, for he has manipulated and he has lied, but it does. It does.

_What am I?_

_You’re my son._

_What more than that?_

“Then I accept your bargain,” Anna says. 

Loki closes his eyes, and she begins.

“I understand why you believe you love him. He is quite striking. But then, you always had an eye for the striking ones.” Anna pauses. In her pause, Loki hears the same pleasure that he felt in the Carrier as he unleashed his knowledge of Natasha’s past upon her, as he sought to break her simply because he could. 

Anna continues. “Do you know that he asked about you after you failed to return from Prague? I told him that he should not care as your defection proved what I surmised all along, that you are nothing more than a failed science experiment. He did not want to believe that you would betray the Academy though, not after everything we did for you, not after giving you your name, giving you purpose and ability.”

_You lie and kill in the service of liars and killers._

Anna pauses again, and Loki hears Natasha draw in a shaky breath. “It is curious now that you have formed an alliance with Captain America, Howard Stark’s great science experiment. Do you feel a kinship with him, Natalia, being Vanko’s? You did for Winter, though he responded to the serum more admirably than you. He never succumbed to sentiment.”

_This is the basest sentimentality._

_This is a child at prayer._

Loki turns. Natasha stands before Anna, tears in her eyes now, her right hand clenched by her side, the knuckles white as she listens to Anna try to break her as Loki tried.

Anna glances at Loki now. A slow smile spreads across her face. “And now love,” she says. “You still believe that you are capable of such emotion.” She looks again at Natasha, and scorn replaces the smile. “You are still a child clinging to dreams.”

_Pathetic._

“You cannot love him. One must give of themselves to love, but you have no self to give. You are a lie, Natalia Romanova. Do you think anything in your life has been real? You cling to the thought that you had a family, that you had a mother who cared enough for you to save you, but these are delusions only, memories that we gave to you along with everything else. You know only lies and deceit. Do you honestly believe that one such as you can love, one who lies the way you do, the way you have tonight?”

_You pretend to be separate, to have your own code, something that makes up for the horrors._

Anna glances again at Loki, and he sees pity once more in her gaze. “And now he knows. He cared for you, and you traded him for information. Tell me, Natalia, how does this make you feel? Do you regret the lies that you used to lure him here? Or did you simply sleep with him as you did the others, as you did Winter?”

_But they are a part of you, and they never go away._

Loki clenches his jaw, and Anna smiles. “You did. Did you believe that this one was different? Did he call out your name? Did he make you feel special? Did he make you feel like you were something other than the whore that you are?”

_No, I won't touch Barton. Not until I make him kill you. Slowly, intimately, in every way he knows you fear. And when he wakes, he'll have just enough time to see the work he's done, and when he screams, I'll break his skull._

Natasha turns, the tears starting to fall down her face, and Anna glows in triumph. 

_This is my bargain, you mewling quim._

Standing now, Anna says, “You know from Luchkov that Victor worked with Vanko. They continued the research that he did with Howard Stark on the Cube. It inspired Stark to create his famous Arc Reactor. It inspired Victor to create a doorway between worlds. One similar,” she says as she looks at Loki, “to the one that you used when you first came here. Victor searches for your world. From Vanko, he has the means to reach it. All he needs is a location.”

Loki stares at Anna, rage brewing within him, rage at her, at Natasha, at Odin and Frigga and Thor and Thanos, but most of all for himself, for all that he has wrought, for all that he has done to lead him to this moment, all of the lies that he has told and all of the lies that he believed, but before he can move, before he can break Anna as she has broken Natasha, as he tried to break Natasha, before he can smile at Anna as he makes her suffer for her sins, as he makes her bleed for her past, as he shows her the real monster in the room, Natasha turns back around and shoots Anna in the chest.

Anna stares at the blood blooming across her shirt and then she looks at Natasha, who gazes back calmly, the tears drying upon her face. She shoots Anna again. Anna wavers for a moment and then falls. 

_So, Banner, that’s your play._

Natasha holsters her gun. She closes the distance between her and Anna and kneels down beside her as blood begins to seep onto the floor.

“You…” Anna says.

“You can’t break me,” Natasha says, her voice quiet. Loki sees pity in her eyes as she looks at Anna. “I hate you too much for that to happen.”

Anna raises a shaking hand and her fingers brush against the symbol of the Widow on Natasha’s belt. “Then you are who I made you to be,” she says, her voice faint. She drops her hand, and for a moment, light flares again in her eyes. “He will come after you,” she says. “I have made sure of it.”

Natasha stares at Anna. A moment passes and then she shrugs. “Let him come,” she says. “He won’t be the first to try to kill me. And he won’t be the last.”

At this, Anna smiles, and she gazes upon Natasha with something akin to pride, and then the light fades from her eyes, her chest stills, and her body goes slack as she lays upon the floor, the monster dead, slain at last by the hunter.

*


	26. Before I Die Alone, I Will Have Vengeance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha knows that the blood on the floor is blood on her hands, it is more red in her ledger, but she also knows that this red from Anna pales in comparison to the blood on her hands from the man beside her.

Natasha knows that the blood on the floor is blood on her hands, it is more red in her ledger, but she also knows that this red from Anna pales in comparison to the blood on her hands from the man beside her. 

Still kneeling beside Anna, she looks up at Loki. He stares down at her, and she feels sick at the look on his face, at the tears still in his eyes. She stands and she waits; she waits for him to vanish, she waits for him to scream at her, she waits for him maybe, maybe to understand.

But instead he asks, “Who is Winter?” 

Of all the beginnings, Natasha anticipated this the least. She thought he would start with the reason for her lie or if she spoke the truth when she told Anna that she loved him. But he starts with Winter, and Natasha wishes she could lie, lies always so easy, but the truth never, but as with Clint before, Loki now deserves the truth. “He’s an assassin for the Academy,” she says.

“And you slept with him?”

The memories claw their way into her mind. The man with the metal arm, the cool blue eyes. The man who never aged, never changed, haunting the halls of the Academy as a living ghost. “I had to,” she says. “Anna said I had to learn from somebody. So I chose him.”

“Why?” 

Natasha looks away. “It doesn’t matter.”

Loki takes a step forward. “Why?” he asks again. His tone is sharp, the word slicing deep. “Tell me,” he says, but Natasha does not respond, her heart pounding in her chest. “ _Tell me_ ,” he says again, and the words echo around the room as he takes another step toward her.

Her breath catches in her lungs as she says, “He seemed… different somehow than the others.”

_He never succumbed to sentiment._

But he had. He had. Natasha had not. 

Loki stares at her for a moment and then he asks, “Did you love him?”

Natasha shakes her head. “I couldn’t. Not there.”

_Children suffered there._

_So I chose not to be a child._

A beat passes and then Loki smiles, but one without warmth, the tears still in his eyes, and Natasha feels the first crack, she feels the first drops of blood within her as he says, “Pay him his compliments when he comes for you. He taught you well.”

“Don’t. Don’t do this.”

“But this is what I do,” he says, his voice again the low thrum from the Carrier. “This is who I am. Or is our first encounter such as distant memory for you?”

_This is my bargain, you mewling quim._

Natasha shakes her head. “It isn’t. But you’ve changed since then. So have I.”

He laughs now. “Change. That’s the cruelest lie you’ve told. We’ve crossed cities and continents, we’ve run so far, yet we are where we were, I in the cage and you manipulating me for information.”

“No,” she says. “The reason is different now.”

At this, Loki shakes his head. “Reason. Circumstance. Again, you try to believe that you’re separate, that you’re somehow different from who you were, but she knew the truth.” Loki points at Anna. He takes another step closer to Natasha. “She knew,” he says, and another crack forms within her. “You are the Black Widow. You are the hunter. And I am the monster.” 

“No.”

“Yes,” he says. “Isn’t it time we woke from this dream, from this lie we’ve tried so desperately to tell ourselves? This lie of sentiment. Of trust. This lie of love.”

“It’s not a lie,” Natasha says, and she takes a step toward him, but Loki moves away. He watches her, again wary, and Natasha stops, but she presses on, she presses forward. The words still sound so foreign to her, but she knows this comes from inexperience only, not fraudulence, so she says to him, “I love you. And I know you love me.”

He leans toward her, rage burning in his eyes. “Because you’re Agent Romanov,” he says, “and you know all. ‘I don’t presume. I know.’” Loki shakes his head. “Such arrogance for a human.”

“It’s not arrogance,” she says. “Why did you give me this,” and here she pauses, pointing to her cheek, to the rune for the Helm of Awe, “if you don’t care about me?” 

Loki pauses, looking at the rune, and then he says, “Because Fury threatened to kill me if you died.” He meets her eyes, his gaze defiant. “All actions are self-defense, or have you forgotten Venice?”

“Have you?” she asks, moving toward him again. “You danced with me there. You came for me in Latveria. Have you forgotten all of that? I kissed you in New York. And last night… Have you forgotten?”

He hesitates, then turns from her. “Moves in a game,” he says. “Nothing more.”

Natasha stills at that. Anger begins to burn within her. She starts forward and shoves him, and he spins around and grabs her by the shoulders. “You are not a game,” she says. “Not to me. I lied to you. And you’re angry. I hurt you. I know. But I would do it again if I had to. Doom hurt you. You were unconscious for two days, and you shouldn’t have been, but you were. Because of me. And now…” Natasha pauses. Her breath catches in her throat at the memory of the message she found waiting for when she woke in Omsk. “And now Clint’s in a coma,” she says. “Doom went after Jane Foster, and Clint was there. They fought, and Clint… He hasn’t woken up yet.” 

Loki stares down at her, his eyes narrowed, and Natasha wants to push him away, she wants to pull him close. Her fingers fall upon the swoop of gold on his chest as she says, “And now Doom has all of Jane’s research about Asgard. He has a location. He has the means to get there. We needed to know if the Arc Reactor powered his ability to travel between worlds so that we could stop him. And only Anna could have told us that. I did what I had to do so that she would talk.”

_Please. Please trust me._

_This is the only way._

His fingers tighten around her shoulders. “So I should thank you for your deception?” he asks, his voice quiet.

Natasha shakes her head. “No. But I hoped you would understand.”

_When he looks at me, I feel like I can stop. I feel like I can stop running._

_Because he understands._

“I understand,” he says. Loki raises a hand to her face and slides his thumb across the Helm of Awe. He bends his head close to her, and she closes her eyes at the feel of him, at the strength of his body and the tremor of his hands. “I understand,” he says again, his voice still soft. “You lied to me because that’s who you are. And I understand because that’s who I am. We live in lies. We are lies. You believed in Natasha Romanov, and I believed in Loki Odinson, but they are nothing. They are nothing.” 

His hand cups her face. Natasha opens her eyes. He is so close that she can see the ring of grey around the blue. “We are nothing,” he whispers, and she burns beneath his stare, at his hands that tremble as they hold her. “You are a hunter, and I am a monster. That is all.”

A beat passes. “Then we are perfect,” she says, and Natasha knows that she cries, but she will for him. She will for this.

Loki smiles again, and the tears slip down his face and fall upon her own, and she thinks for a moment they will be okay, she thinks for a moment that he will stay, but then he releases her and she hears the air crackle, she sees the familiar flare of green light as he teleports away, and Natasha knows that the blood on the floor is her own.

What else made the Red Room so red?

*

She waits for him in the hotel. The feather from Frigga in her hands, wearing again her jeans and her soft black sweater, her jacket and her mother’s scarf (this she refuses to lose, no matter the truth in Anna’s lies), Natasha paces the room and waits. An hour passes and then another, and she knows that she should leave St. Petersburg, the Academy sure to have found Anna by now, but they would have expected her to have fled Russia already, or so she hopes, so Natasha tempts fate, waiting, waiting for Loki.

Her phone rings, and she turns to answer. She had called Fury upon leaving Anna’s, telling him of Doom’s research into the Tesseract, of its connection to his ability to travel between worlds, and Fury had told her of Clint, how his vitals had improved, though he had yet to wake.

But Natasha had not told him of Loki, of what happened between them, and Fury had not asked.

“Yes?” she says now. She hears commotion on the other end, people shouting and the sounds of the Carrier in flight.

“Natasha?” Steve says, and he sounds tense, as on edge as she feels now. “What’s happened?” 

No.

No.

Would he have done this? Would he have gone after them again because of her?

“Why?” she asks, the word strained, strangling her throat.

“Loki stole the spear, the one connected to the Tesseract, and then vanished. What’s going on? Has Doom come after you two again?”

Natasha releases a slow breath. “No,” she says. “No, he hasn’t.” She pauses and looks at the feather. “At least not me.”

There is silence on the other end as Steve processes her words. She hears an alarm sound in the background, and then he says, his voice quieter but no less tense than before, “Natasha, what happened?”

Natasha stares down at the feather on the bed. A moment passes and then she says, “He trusted me, and I lied to him.”

_Do you regret the lies that you used to lure him here?_

_Or did you simply sleep with him as you did the others?_

Natasha draws in a breath as she remembers the assault from Anna, relentless in its intensity. She had attacked everything that Natasha had, her connection to Loki ( _Did he call out your name? Did he make you feel special?_ ), her belief in herself ( _One must give of themselves to love, but you have no self to give_ ), and in doing so, Anna had done the same to Loki, destroying his faith in her ( _He cared for you, and you traded him for information_ ) and his belief that they could change, that they could be more than simply killers who lied.

_You are a hunter, and I am a monster. That is all._

Steve does not respond. Natasha remembers Anna questioning their bond, both of them creations from a lab. At least for Steve, the man beneath the experiment is real and always has been. For Natasha, she does not know. Not now. 

_I know who I am, she had said, what I’ve done._

But.

But.

_You are a lie, Natalia Romanova._

Natasha exhales slowly and pushes Anna from her mind. What good would it do to dwell on her claims? If Anna spoke the truth, if Natasha had no past, if her life until Clint found her in Prague was nothing but a lie, then all she had was the future, and this she would not lose. Not to Anna, not to anyone.

She hears Steve move away from the noise. Silence falls around him and he says, “Do you know where he went?”

Natasha looks at the feather. “No. But I’ll find out.”

“How?”

Propping the phone between her ear and shoulder, Natasha slides the feather into the inside pocket of her jacket. Then she says, “Tell Maria to have someone stop by the hotel and retrieve my gear. They’ll need to be cautious though. The Academy is after me.”

“Natasha—”

“Try to stall Fury if he thinks that Loki taking the spear invalidates the deal.”

“Natasha, wait—”

She ends the call and turns off her phone, sliding it into her pocket. Looking once more around the room, Natasha grabs one of her guns and crosses to the door. Dropping into a crouch, she opens the door and peers into the hall, but she sees no one. Her gun extended, Natasha starts for the stairs. She hears the elevator ding as she enters the stairwell, but she does not look back. 

Starting up, Natasha considers where Loki would go. If he wanted to seek vengeance against her for her manipulation, he would have started with the Carrier. He would have started with Clint, still in a coma in medical. But Loki had left the Carrier after taking the spear.

He had run.

_You demean sentiment, but you are sentiment. You feel, and you hate it. So you run._

If he wanted to run where she could not follow, he needed a way off planet. Otherwise, she would find him, no matter where he would go on Earth. So he needed Heimdall or the Tesseract. 

Natasha eliminates Heimdall as a possibility. Loki had chosen to fall from Asgard; he would not return, not even in his desperation to escape Earth, to escape her. So he needed the Tesseract, which lay somewhere on Asgard. But the lack of the Tesseract had not stopped Doom. All Doom had had was knowledge about the Cube, which, if he spoke the truth, still allowed him to find a way to travel between worlds. So Loki needed someone who knew about the Tesseract, someone who could help him wield the power in the spear so he could teleport away.

He needed Selvig or Tony or Doom.

Natasha eliminates Selvig, hidden far away in the same research center in which S.H.I.E.L.D. had placed Jane Foster in May. So that left Tony or Doom. Loki knew the Arc Reactor, having seized it to power the portal for the Chitauri. He would not have to search for its location either, the Reactor waiting for him in Stark Tower. But he would have to confront Tony and Thor and Bruce and Sif and possibly Steve, too, in order to wield it. 

And they would hold back. They would try to save him as Natasha tries. Thor would try. Steve would try.

Doom would not. Doom would fight back. Doom would try to kill him.

_I am death_ , he had said.

_All I know is the kill._

Natasha climbs the last floors to the roof. Would Loki go to New Mexico, to the last place where Doom had been seen? Or would he return to Latveria and begin his search there? She pauses at the door to the roof and draws in a deep breath. 

She does not know. Not yet. But she will find out. 

Opening the door, Natasha strides onto the roof, her boots crunching the gravel beneath. When she reaches the middle, she stops and turns to the sky.

_I am the guardian of Asgard._

_I see all._

“Heimdall,” she says. She looks at the clouds swirling above her. Her heart begins to pound in her chest. “Heimdall, I know you can hear me.”

_I watch Loki_ , he had said.

_And you._

“I need to find him. I know you can help me.”

Natasha waits, but the sky stays the same; she sees no glimpses of far away worlds beyond the clouds. “Odin owes me,” she continues. “He sent Loki here. He asked me to help him. He started all this, and it can’t… It can’t end this way. I won’t let it.” 

She stares at the sky, but she remembers the past. Loki ran from her in Tokyo, but she tracked him to India. She ran from him in Venice, but he followed her to the gondola. He ran from the hotel in Switzerland, but she trailed him to the church. Then he found her in Latveria and she kissed him in New York and they came here to Russia together. 

But now Loki runs again, he runs from her, but Natasha will follow him, she will give chase once more, for she is the hunter and he is the beast with the golden horns, and she loves him.

_Stay with me._

_Stay with me._

_Beloved._

“Odin may have lost him,” she says. “But I won’t. I won’t. Now open the Bifrost.”

Natasha looks at the sky, and then the light changes, the winds whip the clouds into a funnel, and for the second time that year, she sees another world beyond the stars. She braces herself for the journey, and then the door to the roof opens and Natasha sees Winter staring at her, a gun in his hand. He looks the same, though more than three years have passed since she saw him last, but then, she knows, he always looked the same. The man with the metal arm. The man with the cool blue eyes. 

Winter raises the gun, but he does not fire. He glances at her and then the sky in turmoil above them as the clouds begin to descend. Natasha has just enough time to holster her weapon when the funnel reaches her and Winter fires. 

The bullet strikes her high in the chest as the Bifrost takes her away.

*


	27. Runaway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the smooth expanse of his life in Asgard, Loki had always felt the scratch, the spot that mars, the place where the pieces of himself should come together and fit, but instead they grated, they set his teeth on edge, and he lived in Paradise as a man tormented by a shadow from the corner of his eye, glimpsed only but never seen.

The winds still and the light of the Bifrost fades, and Natasha would fall save for the strong hand beneath her elbow. She catches a glimpse of long brown hair before she must close her eyes, her stomach churning from the journey. She feels blood seep from the wound on her chest, from the shot from Winter beneath her left collarbone. 

_He never succumbed to sentiment._

But he had. He had. Why else would he have shot for a wound and not a kill?

Natasha feels a hand on her chest, she feels pressure on her wound, and then the woman beside her says, “Heimdall, what has happened?”

“The man with the gun fired upon her before the Bifrost descended.”

Drawing in a slow breath, Natasha opens her eyes. The golden chamber in which she stands dazzles her, as does the sight of the bridge of rainbow light beyond the room and the distant vista of elegant spires, the view of a kingdom from legend. She remembers Loki in the Doge’s Palace claiming that the splendor there was nothing more than a shadow of Asgard. He had been right.

Turning to the woman beside her, she says, “Are you—?”

“I am Frigga,” she says. Like Loki, like Odin, like Heimdall and Thor, Natasha sees the passage of time in her eyes. How old must she be? How old is Loki? Natasha never considered his age before or his life beyond the past few years, but if he was right, if a leaf could fall on Asgard and millennia would pass, how many lifetimes had he lived before his path crossed hers?

“Many,” Frigga says, “but none more meaningful than now.”

Natasha stares at her, unnerved. A beat passes in which Frigga holds her gaze and then she looks at the wound in Natasha’s chest. “I can aid you,” she says. “I feel the metal inside you and can remove it, if you allow me.”

Natasha nods. Frigga lifts her hand, and Natasha sees her blood on the pale palm. Green energy envelops the slim fingers, and Natasha grimaces as the bullet moves within her. She looks down; the shot rises from her chest; it hovers above her and then Frigga waves her hand, vanishing the metal. Peering at Natasha once more, she says, “I can do no more. I know little about Midgardian physiology.”

Natasha shakes her head. “It’s okay. Can you… Can you help me wrap my scarf around the wound? To stem the blood.”

Frigga nods. She helps Natasha ease her left arm out of her jacket and then Frigga unwinds the scarf and begins to wrap the fabric under Natasha’s arm and over her shoulder. As she works, Natasha sees Heimdall step into view, a sword in his hands. He regards her as before, his gaze steady, still penetrating far beneath the surface, and she wonders how much he has seen of the past few weeks.

Frigga answers her unspoken question. “Only as much as necessary to ensure us of your safety.”

Gritting her teeth, Natasha steps away from Frigga and Heimdall. Their omnipotence unsettles her; their distance angers her. “I would stay out of my head,” she says to Frigga as she secures the end of her scarf beneath the layers. “You wouldn’t like much of what you see.”

Frigga stares at her, but Natasha does not look away. She will not relent before them, so remote in their paradise, content to watch Loki as he suffers, but not fight for him. A moment passes and then Frigga says, “There is nothing within you that frightens me. Only strength that I admire and compassion that I value. But I will respect your wish.”

Natasha nods. She slides her left arm into her jacket, stilling at the shock of pain from her chest. Breathing in slowly, she zips her jacket and then cradles her left arm to her chest. “Do you know where he is?” she asks, looking at Heimdall.

“No. He conceals himself from me.”

Natasha licks her lips and breathes in again. Loki had called her arrogant for claiming to know him. Perhaps she was, but then so was he if he believed that she wouldn’t find him. Glancing again at Heimdall, she says, “Do you remember where you picked up Thor and the team? When they were searching for Loki the last time?”

Heimdall nods.

“Take me there.”

“You suffered there,” he says. His eyes fall upon the cast still on her hand. “And you risk death without knowing if Loki awaits you at your destination.”

“Yes,” she says. “Your point?”

Heimdall and Frigga exchange a glance. Briefly, Natasha wonders what they communicate to each other, but then she dismisses the curiosity. They are not her concern. She sees Frigga nod. Heimdall strides past her. He lifts his sword, pauses, and then looks at her. “Prepare yourself,” he says.

Natasha breathes in. She sees the bridge of rainbow light begin to pulse, and she closes her eyes. She cannot think about the outcome if she is wrong, if Doom is at the base but Loki is not, or if she is too late or somehow too early, and she shot, with only one gun and her phone, pursued by Winter and the Academy and Doom, thousands of miles from S.H.I.E.L.D. and the other Avengers. Instead, as the winds rise around Natasha, she can only think about how Loki will be there and how he will listen to her and how she will be able to somehow, somehow convince him to stay.

For this, Natasha will hope.

*

She lands in the middle of a compound, surrounded by the remains of exploded robots. Fire burns the building to her right. Through a hole in the wall, she sees the charred frame of a small airplane. Behind her stands an immense structure with a cracked steel door and crumbling concrete walls; smoke leaks from the cracks, curling into the cloudy air. To her left lays shattered bits of wood and stone blown back toward the forest beyond, a battered corpse of a building still sending smoldering in places. Natasha does not know how much of this damage Loki wrought himself and how much lingers from the assault from the Avengers during her rescue. She eyes the building before her as a wave of nausea washes over her. The only door hangs by one hinge; it sways in the light breeze. In the hall past the door, she sees a robot crawl past, legless. 

Bracing her left arm against her stomach, Natasha takes a step toward the building and then the windows in the top floor explode out into the center of the compound. 

Natasha drops as shards of glass rain down around her. She hears another blast of energy and looks up to see a robot shoot from the top floor. One half lands in the smoldering wreckage to her left; the other half disappears into the outlying woods. Pushing herself to her feet, Natasha runs for the open door. She clambers inside as another robot crashes onto the building with the burning plane. 

Inside the building, she stops. Smoke from the fire raging in the hall before her curls against the flickering fluorescent lights. Natasha sees debris blocking the path to her right. The only option lay then in the hall to her left. Sliding her gun from her holster, she eases down the hall. She tastes bile in her throat from the Bifrost; her sweater clings where the blood has soaked through. 

At the end of the hall, Natasha climbs over the broken door into the stairwell. She hears nothing as she ascends save for her own ragged breathing. She reaches the next floor but passes it by, unconcerned at what lies beyond, her focus only on the top. There, instead of a door, she finds a jagged arch leading to a short hall filled with smoke and ash. In the swirl of the smoke, Natasha sees part of a large room and blue sky through fragments of windows. 

She stands a moment, looking through the ash, looking at the room and at the far glimpse of sky. She breathes in and adjusts her grip on her gun, and then she starts down the hall to the room beyond.

*

On the smooth expanse of his life in Asgard, Loki had always felt the scratch, the spot that mars, the place where the pieces of himself should come together and fit, but instead they grated, they set his teeth on edge, and he lived in Paradise as a man tormented by a shadow from the corner of his eye, glimpsed only but never seen. 

When he discovered the shadow to be himself, Loki Laufeyson, the scratch healed, but the pieces shattered, and he seized the jagged edges of his life and laid siege to the world. He knew then a pale imitation of peace, his broken self soldered together with the purpose of destruction. 

And then she came. 

_There are not many people who can sneak up on me._

_But you figured I’d come._

She came and she stood before him, so slight a thing, and Loki knew the flaws within her, he knew the seams to press to shatter her again, but she did not shatter. She did not break. 

_So, Banner, that’s your play._

And he had to know. He sought her for knowledge, for the secret that allowed her to affix her past into a cohesive whole, the bonds strong enough to withstand his attempt to break her with São Paulo, with Drakov and his daughter, with the hospital fire and Barton, and she spoke of change, of making a choice. 

_Someone gave me a chance. And I made a choice._

_We choose who we are. What we become._

She spoke of freedom from fate, and Loki believed her, succumbing to the bright lure as all who suffer under subjugation succumb. How could he not, how could he not fall before her, so slight a thing but so strong, standing before him and daring him to be more than a monster, as she herself dared to be more than her past dictated her to be? 

_Can you? Can you change how you feel about me?_

_Yes_ , she had said.

Loki closes his eyes. A lie only. 

_This is not a game._

The most wondrous lie. 

_I love you. And I know you love me._

The most glorious dream. 

_Sometimes… sometimes I think this is still a dream. You came to me in July, and you changed my life. So… quickly. So completely._

_How could this be real?_

Loki clenches his jaw.

_Because it is_ , he had said.

But it isn’t. The ability to change, the promise of peace, the possibility of love, all a mirage, all a lovely, deadly chimera dangled before him by fate so that he would learn once more the truth he had tried to deny.

_You are hunter, and I am a monster. That is all._

So he searches now for knowledge of the Tesseract, for the clarity, for the purpose of self, no matter how tenuous, seen in the Cube. He searches for his way out.

And he does not think about Natasha.

He does not think about Natasha.

But he does.

“Travelling?” she asks.

Loki stills, his hands hovering over the computer through which he searches, the only item whole in the room around them. Something skitters across the floor, perhaps debris kicked out of her way as she enters the room, the remains of an office for Doom. “You left so soon,” she says, her voice calm, “you forgot to pack. So I came to help.”

Loki opens his eyes. He can’t not. She stands before him, her face pale, like bone beneath blood. Her left arm dangles by her side, and she holds a gun in her right hand. He sees shadows in her eyes, but also strength, and he does not, he does not, he does not love her, but he does.

“How—?” he asks before he can stop himself.

She arches a brow. “If I can convince Odin to return your powers to you, you think I can’t convince Heimdall to open the Bifrost for me?” 

“But—”

“But you were concealing yourself from him. I know. I didn’t need a location. I just needed the means to get here.”

Loki grits his teeth at her arrogance, at her surety in her knowledge of him, and he tries, he tries not to admire her cunning, her ability to bend others to her will simply by talking to them.

But he fails.

“Do you want to see what I brought?” she asks. Natasha looks at him, but she does not wait for him to respond. She bends over and lays her gun on the floor. Then she stands and unzips her jacket, and it is then that Loki sees her scarf and the blood and the hole high in her chest.

“What happened?” he asks.

She glances at him. “Do you care?”

No.

Yes.

In the silence, Natasha looks down at the blood and shrugs. “I got shot,” she says. “It happens.” She looks at him again. “But don’t worry. I’m nothing, remember? How can this hurt if I’m not real?”

_You believed in Natasha Romanov, and I believed in Loki Odinson, but they are nothing._

She holds his gaze, daring him to return to his earlier claims, but he stays silent. What more can he say?

“Do you want to see what I brought?” she asks again. Her eyes still on Loki, she reaches inside her jacket and removes the feather from Munin, the top end mangled by the bullet, the barbs dripping blood. “I thought you might want a memento,” she says, staring down at the feather. “That’s what it’s for, isn’t it? For you to remember?”

Loki looks away. Always, always they remember, the two of them so defined by their pasts. So much remembrance the past few weeks, in Venice, in Switzerland, in New York and Omsk, but for what? 

_I love you. And I know you love me._

Nothing more than light from a star, a pale, insubstantial flicker in the heavens.

“I don’t want to remember,” he says.

“Neither did I, but I did for you.”

Loki looks at her again, and he feels anger stir within his chest. “You did it for Odin,” he says. “He asked you to find me in Italy.”

Natasha shakes her head. “I did it for you. You asked me to the night you thought you would die. Or have you forgotten how we first met?” Loki frowns at that and she says, “I know the monster and the hunter met before in the cage, but Loki and Natasha, not until then.”

Now Loki raises a brow. “Semantics.”

Natasha takes a step closer to him. Anger brightens her face, bringing a shock of color to her cheeks. He wonders how long ago she had been shot, how she can stand before him now, still reeling from that and the Bifrost. “Semantics,” she says. “Circumstance. Reason. It’s easier for you to deny them all, isn’t it? It’s simpler. You’re a monster. I’m a hunter. That’s all.” 

“Easy?” he asks, stepping back from the computer. “Nothing about this has been easy.”

“So you’re giving up. You’re running again.”

Loki shrugs and looks away. The room around them still smolders from his destruction, the chairs overturned, the windows smashed. “Why not?” he asks. The head of a robot twitches by his feet. “There’s nothing for me here.”

“There’s everything for you here,” she counters. “You’re just too afraid to take it.”

He glares at her now. “I’m not afraid.”

“Then prove it. Stop running.”

Loki stares at her, and she raises a brow at him, so secure in herself, so arrogant. His blood boils and he strides around the desk toward her. “Why?” he asks. “So you can lie to me again?”

“Yes,” she says simply, but the answer is far from simple. “And so you can lie to me.” Natasha moves closer as she points to the laptop on the desk. “Do you think I never figured it out, how you stole from Doom? Odin tried to strip you of your power, but he couldn’t, could he? Not all of it. You’re from Jotunheim. You’re not from Asgard. But you told me you were powerless in India. You lied to me then. Didn’t you?”

Loki hesitates. 

“ _Didn’t you?_ ”

He had prepared the lie long ago— Computers, ridiculously easy to learn— but he does not lie now, the truth mattering little in the ruins. “Yes,” he says. “But you were coming to kill me.”

“If I had been coming to kill you, you’d be dead,” she says. A beat passes in which they glare at each other; then Natasha shakes her head. She stares at the feather in her hand, her brows drawn together, her voice soft as she remembers. “I wasn’t even supposed to be there. Fury told me not to go, but I did anyway. I had to know.” She looks at him again, and she smiles, and he loves her for that smile and he hates her for that smile. “But you knew that. You were waiting for me there. Just like you’re waiting now.” Natasha pauses, watching him carefully. Loki wills himself to hold her stare, to stay impassive beneath her scrutiny. “If you weren’t,” she says, “you would have left the first moment you heard me. But you stayed. Why?” 

Loki looks away.

“Why?” she asks again, and she takes another step closer. He could touch her if he desired, and he does, but he doesn’t. He could teleport away if he wanted to, and he should, but he stays.

Why does he stay?

He knows why.

_I love you. And I know you love me._

“Aren’t you tired?” she asks. Loki sees the exhaustion on her face; he feels the same within him. “Aren’t you tired of running? We could go to Paris and just sit, just sit in a café and drink wine and we don’t have to think about Doom or S.H.I.E.L.D. or spying. We could just… we could just be. We could just be Loki and Natasha.”

Loki closes his eyes at the image. The perfection of the scene makes him ache, but he sees the scratch in the glass, he sees the spot that mars, the fact that she lied to him because of Barton, that she chose Barton over him, and that she always will.

“A wondrous lie,” he says, and he hates how his voice shakes, he hates how her breath stills as his shot hits the mark. 

_You are a lie, Natalia Romanova._

_You know only lies and deceit._

Loki opens his eyes. Natasha stares at the feather. He sees the tremor in her hand, and he wants to stay, he wants to succumb to the lie again, but he lacks the conviction to believe, of this Coulson had been right.

“So what happens now?” she asks, meeting his gaze once more.

Loki stares at her and then he calls for his spear. 

Natasha looks at the spear and then at him, and he cannot breathe, he cannot breathe, as she lets the feather fall from her hand. A second passes, only a second, but as on Asgard, the second here a millennia, and then she leans over and lifts her gun from the floor.

_Do you see what I am?_

_I am death. All I know is the kill._

She stood before him then, daring him to kill her, daring him to change, as she stands before him now, and he could not kill her then as he cannot now. Not now. Not yet. So Loki turns, he moves back to the computer, and it is then Natasha fires.

The bullets shatter the laptop. Loki hears the sizzle of electronics as Natasha destroys the computer, as she destroys his way out. He turns and finds her staring at him, her eyes blazing. “You think I’m going to let you go just because you’re angry with me?” she asks. “I thought you knew me better than that.”

Loki glances from Natasha to the laptop, smoking now in the ruins, and he hates her for this, but he loves her. His hand tightening on his spear, he says, “You don’t want me to stay here, Agent Romanov.” 

Natasha arches a brow. “Why not? Because you’re going to kill Clint to make me suffer?” Loki stays silent, and she smirks. “You won’t,” she says. “Not yet. Because if you do, I won’t give you what Tony and S.H.I.E.L.D. know about the Tesseract.”

At this, Loki stills, and her smirk becomes a smile, the smile of the hunter. Loki watches her, wary for the trap to spring, for the game to begin, and after a moment, she says, “You weren’t subtle when you stole the spear. Fury and Tony will have everything related to the Tesseract on lockdown, especially if I don’t make contact soon.” Natasha looks at the computer and then at Loki again. “Even with your powers, stealing this information won’t be as easy as stealing from Doom. Not for you.”

“But it will be for you?” he asks, and she nods. He feels another flash of anger at her arrogance, but he knows she is right. Fury, Barton, the Captain, they trust her. They all trust her, as Loki had trusted her. He wonders how they would respond to a theft like this. What consequences would she suffer for such an action? Loki eyes her now and says, “Why would you give me this?”

The hunter flickers, and Loki sees Natasha again, her eyes elegiac. “Every game has a prize for the winner,” she says. “This is yours. If you win.”

A moment passes and then Loki shakes his head. “You are a creature to behold,” he murmurs. “Your world again in the balance, and you still bargain for one man.”

“What can I say?” Natasha asks. She glances down at the feather, and Loki feels the glance as a knife to the chest. “I guess I’m just sentimental that way.”

_Love is for children. I owe him a debt._

_I love you. And I know you love me._

Loki swallows. The spear feels cold in his hand and hard. “And if you win?” he asks, his voice quiet, but he already knows her response.

“You stay,” she says. “You give back the spear and you stay on Earth. I’ll convince Fury to go back to the original agreement, and you’ll be free to travel wherever you wish.” Natasha pauses. She draws in a breath. Then she looks at him and says, “And I won’t follow you.”

Loki looks away. From the corners of his eyes, he sees Natasha shift; he sees her lean to the left before straightening again. Even from here, he can smell the blood from her wound, her scarf black with it. His hand convulses around the spear, and he wonders if this is the work of Winter. 

_He seemed… different somehow than the others._

Glancing at her again, he asks, “And the game?” 

Natasha is quiet a moment as she contemplates his question. Then he sees the ghost of a smile on her face. “Surprise me.”

_I do happen to be quite skilled with illusions, though. All you have to do is tell me where._

_Anywhere?_

_Anywhere I’ve been._

She had looked at him then and said, Surprise me, and Loki had, showing her the stars beyond the precipice in Asgard, the stars into which he had fallen so long ago. He stares at the spear in his hand, the consequence of his fall, the fall itself the consequence of his discovery of the truth. He remembers the feel of the Casket in his hands, the power within pushing away the deception laid by Odin in the temple on Jotunheim, in the blood of war.

_Surprise me_ , she had said.

So he will.

Looking back at her, he says, “You convinced Odin to return to me my powers. You convinced Heimdall to open the Bifrost for you. Now you have to do it again. Convince Heimdall to open the Bifrost for you, travel to Asgard, and then convince Odin to return to me the Casket of Ancient Winters.”

Natasha stares at him. “What is that?” 

“A possession that belongs to me. Odin stole it from Jotunheim as he stole everything else.”

Natasha watches him. Loki knows that she searches for the catch, for the motivation behind this challenge, but he keeps his face blank, denying her as she denied him in Omsk. After a moment, she says, “How long do I have?”

“How long do you need?”

She glances at the gun in her hand. Her eyes close briefly, then she says, “Four days. Three if you take me back to my apartment so that I don’t have to fight my way out of Latveria.”

“Then you have three days.”

Natasha nods once and engages the safety on her gun, sliding it beneath the waistband of her jeans. Loki vanishes the spear, and they stare at each other, the distance between them the length of a desk, the span of a lie. Loki forces himself to take a step forward, to move closer to her. She watches as he approaches. He stops before her. A beat passes and then Natasha leans in. She raises herself on her toes, and Loki feels the tentative touch of her hand on his, he feels her mouth rest close to his ear, and she says, her voice a low whisper that makes him shiver, “Someday, Loki, you will trust me again.”

_Someday, Natasha, you will trust me._

She eases back, and she is so close that he can see the ring of gold within the green of her eyes. Loki leans in, he can’t not, and he smells the pomegranate in her hair and he feels the warmth of her skin as his hand closes around hers. He pictures her apartment in his mind, and then the air crackles around them, he feels the energy flare within, and he has just enough time to hear the sounds of Manhattan amid his memory of Shostakovich before he releases her and teleports away.

*


	28. Day One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint sighs and reaches for the glass of water beside the bed. No, he does not want to talk about Loki. He does not want to think about Loki. He would rather imagine Loki burning in the middle of the sun or being thrown into a volcano, but instead he takes a drink of water and he prepares to talk about Loki. Clint will not lose Natasha from his life simply because she has abominable taste in men.

When Clint wakes, he feels pressure in his chest and a cool pillow beneath his head. He breathes in and stills as the air burns his lungs. Then someone calls his name, and he opens his eyes.

He lies in a room in Stark Tower. To his right, he sees a small table with a glass of water and two plants and then a wall of windows beyond and the evening sky above New York. At the foot of the bed, he sees his quiver and his bow, a gleaming Stark tablet, a slim bottle of scotch, some headphones, and a card from Steve. Last, to his left, he sees Natasha, her legs curled beneath her as she sits in the chair beside the bed, her face pale but her eyes warm as she looks at him.

“No Sudoku?” he asks, his voice creaking from lack of use.

A small smile appears on her face. “I didn’t have time,” she says. She looks past him to the table holding his water. “I brought you my plant though.”

Clint chuckles at that. He groans as he tries to sit, his muscles seizing in discomfort. Natasha leans forward, and it is then that Clint sees the bandage beneath the collar of her shirt. “The med team doesn’t know what Doom did to you,” she says, “not exactly, but they think you’ll be fine. Eventually.”

Clint eyes the bandage. “What about you?”

Natasha looks away. She no longer wears the cast on her left hand, but instead a sleek black glove that ends at her wrist. Clint frowns at that and tries to catch Natasha’s eye, but she avoids his gaze. Instead, she stands, moves to the table, and starts to push it toward him, her left arm still by her side.

He waits until she sits beside him and then he says, “Natasha, what happened?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” she says, her tone brisk. She scans the gifts on the table and then looks at him, her gaze steady, but also a lie. “Where do you want to begin?”

“With my question,” he says, and her jaw clenches. She turns away from him, lifting the scotch from the table. Clint waits as she stares, as she inspects the label, the scotch a foreign brand that Bruce must have discovered in his travels. Still she is silent, waiting him out, so after a moment, he says, “Natasha.” 

“What do you want me to say, Clint? Talking about what happened means talking about Loki, and I know you don’t want to do that.” 

Clint sighs and reaches for the glass of water beside the bed. No, he does not want to talk about Loki. He does not want to think about Loki. He would rather imagine Loki burning in the middle of the sun or being thrown into a volcano, but instead he takes a drink of water and he prepares to talk about Loki. Clint will not lose Natasha from his life simply because she has abominable taste in men.

He eyes the bandage now. “Did he do this to you?”

Natasha sighs and returns the bottle to the table. “No. The Academy did. They’re after me again.”

“Why?” 

Natasha looks at him, and Clint feels his stomach clench at the expression in her eyes, the same sorrow now as when she first told him of her past, the same pain that he saw when he lowered his weapon in Prague. He places his glass on the bedside table and says, “You saw Anna.” 

Natasha nods. She reaches for the card from Steve; Clint sees himself on the front, standing on top of his SUV, shooting arrows at Doom as he runs away, his hands covered protectively over his ass. Natasha passes him the card and Clint opens it, waiting for her to tell him. Inside, he sees Thor and Jane and Darcy on the left, along with Fury and Maria, and he sees Steve and Bruce and Tony and Pepper on the right, and, as always, lurking in the bottom, the lettering small and precise, Natasha.

And he cannot breathe at the signature, at the woman sitting before him, so tormented by her past, the wound that never healed, but never, never submitting. He remembers when he found her after Anna took her from Estonia, Natasha strung up by her hands in the middle of a dank stone room, bloodied and naked, her legs wrapped around the neck of a guard too foolish to keep his distance. Clint had loved her then as he loves her now, as he knows that he always will.

He closes the card and looks at her. A moment passes and then she says, “Luchkov said that Doom worked with Anton Vanko. He didn’t know on what, but he said that Anna did. So we went.”

“What happened?”

Natasha stares at her hands. She breathes in, and the air catches in her chest as she says, “What always happens with her.”

_You know what it’s like to be unmade._

_You know that I do._

Clint knows. Three years after he chose to save Natasha yet he still knows so little about her or her life before S.H.I.E.L.D. But he knows this, he knows about Anna, the reason why he knows so little else. And Clint knows that acquiring information from Anna would have come with a high price, the cost knowledge, the more intimate the better, the better to use to break Natasha.

_So we went._

_Do you love him?_

_I don’t know._

_But you care for him?_

_Yes._

Clint withholds the sigh that rises within him. Of course. Of course, if he was there with her, if she looks as she looks now. Clint watches Natasha a moment longer and then he says, “Where is he?”

When she meets his gaze, Clint knows that he guessed correctly. The price for the information was Loki, and he must have reacted poorly. Clint grits his teeth at that; his hand itches for his bow. Did Loki not realize the significance of the cost, the price proof of her regard for him? Clint can only imagine what he said to her in response, knowing what he knows of her past, the secrets that he gleaned from Clint back in May. 

“He’s on Earth,” she says, infuriatingly vague. “But only until the day after tomorrow unless I can fix what I did.”

Clint frowns at that. “What did you do?”

Natasha smiles, a sharp twist of her lips that cuts Clint with the misery it contains. “What I always do,” she says, and he reaches for her now, he can’t not, but she stands and turns away.

“Nat—”

“Here,” she says and pulls a small envelope from the back pocket of her jeans. Turning back to him, she holds out the envelope, still avoiding his gaze. “It’s a key to a safety deposit box. Just in case.”

Clint ignores the envelope. Dread pools cold in his gut as he looks at her. “Just in case what?”

Natasha does not respond; she lays the envelope on the table beside the bottle of scotch.

Clint leans forward; his muscles seize again, and he stills. Natasha looks at him, concern for him clear on her face. “Nat, what is going on?” he asks.

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Tasha—”

“Don’t,” she says. “Don’t make me lie. I can’t—” She stops and looks away. Clint sees her hand tremble, and it is then that he knows the depth of her regard for Loki. She loves him, she loves him, and she must have lied to him if she resists lying to Clint, and now she plans to do something to convince him to stay, something reckless if she will not tell Clint, if she has considered a ‘just in case.’

Natasha looks at him once more. “On the roof,” she says, “you asked me why I couldn’t have chosen Steve or Bruce or someone other than Loki, and I said then that it wasn’t a choice. And it wasn’t, not then, but it is now. This is my choice, Clint, whatever happens.” 

Clint stares at her, and he sees strength in her spine, in her eyes, strength enough to challenge a god and to play to win. “What do you need?” he asks.

“Three days.”

Clint hesitates, but then he nods. He loves her; he can’t not. Besides, with three days, he can figure out how to save her if this plan ends poorly. He can figure out how to kill Loki if he must.

At his nod, Natasha releases a slow breath. And Clint sees so much on her face, so much of what she has not said to him before and what she cannot say now, and he knows this is her way of saying goodbye. 

“Thank you,” she says.

Clint looks away. “Don’t thank me. Not for this.”

“I’m not.”

He turns to her again. “Then what?”

Natasha meets his gaze. “For everything else,” she says, and she smiles again, a small one that slices more deeply than the sharp grimace from before because, in this smile, Clint sees Prague and he sees Estonia and he sees Budapest and a dozen other places in between, a dozen other times in which they fought beside each other and saved each other. 

_You’re the most important person in the world to me._

_You’re my family._

Another moment passes and then she turns and walks to the door. When her hand falls on the handle, he says, “On the roof, you said you weren’t a good person. That you couldn’t be because of what you’ve done in your past. But you are, and he’s a fucking idiot if he can’t see that.”

Her hand tightens on the handle. “And if I can’t see it?” she asks.

The doubt in her voice makes him ache. “Then I’ll have to persuade you,” he says, and he catches the edge of a grin as she opens the door and walks away.

*

She appears on the balcony as Fury sits on his couch listening to John Coltrane. He long ago learned not to question how Natasha acquired her information, even private information such as the location to his apartment in New York, which Fury had revealed only to Phil in case of an emergency. But as he stands and crosses to the double glass doors, Fury thinks that, if anything counted as an emergency, it would be the past few days, with Doom sidelining Barton and taking Jane Foster’s research, Natasha killing Anna Volenskaya, and then Loki stealing the Tesseract spear and bolting for places unknown. The only positive had been Doom not showing at the U.N. conference that day, though even that was tempered by the knowledge that no one knew where exactly he had gone after he fled New Mexico.

Fury opens the doors, but he does not invite Natasha inside. He doubts she would accept even if he offered, Natasha respecting the idea of private spaces as much as Fury himself. 

“Where is he?” he asks without preamble.

“France,” she says. “Or he will be.” She leans against the rail and regards him through guarded eyes. With Clint and with Phil, Fury knows, Natasha eventually allowed them past the stoicism, but never him. He imagines that living for two decades with Anna Volenskaya as your superior would make anyone, let alone Natasha, wary of others in the same position of power. Fury tries not to let her presence now, her sign of trust, disarm him, but it does.

“Why did he take the spear?” he asks.

Natasha hesitates, and Fury relaxes. Hesitation means the truth, it means he won’t have to deal with Doom and Loki and Natasha all going rogue at the same time. “He wants to leave,” she says after a moment. “Questioning Anna went… badly.”

Fury raises a brow. “You mean badder than you killing her?”

“Yes,” she says. “But not in any way that requires a response.”

Fury sighs at that and steps onto the balcony. “Natasha, he stole the same weapon that he used to try to take over the planet with. How is this not a situation that requires a response?”

“What has he done with the spear so far to require a response? He took it, yes, but not to fight against S.H.I.E.L.D. or the Avengers. If that was what he wanted, he would have done it already.”

“Maybe he’s just waiting for the right moment.”

“Waiting gives you time to prepare,” she counters. “We barely had time to do that in May, and we still won. He knows this.” 

“Natasha—”

She takes a step forward, and Fury sees the frayed edges of her calm in the corners of her eyes. “His fight isn’t with you or the team or the world,” she says. “It isn’t even with Doom right now. It’s with me. All I’m asking is for three days to fix it.”

Natasha stares at him, her face set, as determined to pursue this course of action regarding Loki as she had been to engage him in India, despite Fury’s orders to the contrary. He holds her stare for a moment and then sighs. “Three days is a lot of time.”

“I know. But I’m not asking you not to prepare. And I’m not asking you not to fight him if I’m wrong, if he does come here or if he attacks somewhere else. Just… don’t engage him first. Not until you hear from me again.”

Fury hesitates, and she soldiers on, pressing the advantage. “You wanted options with Doom,” she says, “so you waited. You knew he was dangerous, you knew he would be coming for us again, but you waited so you could gather more information. And you waited with Loki at the start of all this, you waited until he chose to stay. Waiting now gives you options, too. Going to France before he shows any signs of aggression gives you none.” 

Fury rubs one hand across his face and looks out at the night sky. Natasha, Rogers, Thor, all of them willing to go to bat for Loki, even now, even after he stole the spear, Natasha coming here, Rogers following Fury around the Carrier like a damn bloodhound, Thor calling him every ten minutes and leaving seventeen increasingly long and loud voicemails before Fury had finally blocked him. 

_How desperate are you that you would call upon such lost creatures to defend you?_

_How desperate am I? You threaten my world with war. You steal a force you can't hope to control. You talk about peace, and you kill because it's fun. You have made me very desperate._

Desperate enough to bring the Avengers together, and if Fury couldn’t trust them, what was the point? He looks at Natasha again, and he wishes that he had never ordered her to follow Loki from Tokyo, never allowed Odin to dictate her journey to Italy. He can add this to his long list of other regrets.

He looks at her and draws in a slow breath and then he says, “Fine. You have your days. But we will prepare, and even if I hear from you, if I don’t like what I hear, we’re going after him.”

Natasha nods once and then turns to climb back down the fire escape. Fury watches her go. She melts into the night, a lithe shadow, and he tries not to worry, Natasha the most capable out of all his agents, but how tall can the odds be stacked against her, with Doom and the Academy and Loki and Barton and her injuries, before even the Black Widow bows to the pressure?

Returning to his apartment, Fury pauses Coltrane and then powers his phone. He dials Maria, and when she answers, he says, “Prep Phase 2.”

*

The austerity in the apartment in which Natasha lives intrigues Thor. The walls hold no pictures, the rooms the minimum of furnishings, the furnishings no personal effects save for neat rows of clothes on metal rods in one bedroom and a dark, gleaming chaise in the other. Thor’s room in Asgard held as few furnishings as this, but the room itself glowed from warm light from an unending fire that reflected on golden walls. He remembers never understanding why Loki preferred dark stone and sleek wood to the gold décor in the rest of the palace, but then he had always been blind to the reality of his brother, to his desire to be as different from Thor yet as accepted as him as he could be.

Thor stares at the chaise. He hopes that he has grown in his knowledge of his brother. He feels a superior understanding at his grasp now, the few conversations that they’ve had since Loki came to Earth more meaningful than centuries spent together on Asgard, but Thor also knows that his knowledge of Loki still pales to that possessed by Natasha, her knowledge the more remarkable as she gathered it in so short a span of time. 

Turning now to Natasha, he finds her still staring at the Captain and Sif as they stand behind him in the central room. “Please forgive my trespass,” he says. “I know you wished to speak with me only, but as you wished to speak about Loki, I desired their council. The Captain has argued most eloquently for Loki these past days, and I vouch for the honor of Sif with my life.” 

Natasha looks at him and then at the Captain and Sif. A beat passes and then she nods. Her gaze flitting once more to the Captain, she says, “Thank you, all of you, for coming. I know the tower would have been easier, but I didn’t want to be overheard. At least not by Tony,” she says, glancing now at the ceiling.

“Why not?” Steve asks, moving farther into the room. 

Natasha looks at Steve, and a tight smile appears on her face. “Because if there’s one thing that Loki excels at, it’s causing conflict within the Avengers. But we don’t have time for a lot of arguing.”

The edge in her voice causes Thor to tense. “Where is my brother?” he asks.

“In Paris. But if you agree to help me, we won’t be going there. At least not yet.”

Thor narrows his eyes. “Where would we go?”

Natasha licks her lips and draws in a deep breath. She hesitates another moment and then says, “We would go to Asgard.” 

“Asgard?” Sif says. She glances at Thor and then at Natasha again, her brows drawn together. “Why?”

Natasha remains silent, assessing Sif through cool eyes. Thor wishes that there had been time for the two to meet before Natasha and Loki had traveled to Russia. Thor does not know what Loki may have told her about Sif; he doubts anything positive as Sif and Loki had often clashed in the past, their disagreements at times becoming vicious. He hopes that the Captain’s presence as well as his own will suffice to convince Natasha to trust her. 

The silence endures, Natasha continues to stare, but Sif does not relent, her face composed yet unyielding. Thor waits, a minute more passes, and just as he is about to speak, Natasha says, “I need to talk to Odin.” 

Thor frowns at that. “Why? Loki hates our father. What help could he provide?”

Natasha returns her gaze to Thor. Again, she hesitates, and again, the tension rises within Thor. “Loki asked for something that he says Odin has,” she begins. “Something that he says belongs to him. If I can get it, he’ll give back the spear and he’ll stay. But if I can’t…” She pauses now. The look in her eyes sends a dart of anxiety through Thor. “If I can’t,” she continues, “he’s going to use the spear to leave.” 

And Thor already knows the answer to his question, but he still asks Natasha anyway because maybe, maybe he is wrong, maybe Loki really has changed as he said he has and as Thor hopes. Maybe, maybe. “What does he desire?” 

“He called it the Casket of Ancient Winters.”

_Why have you done this?_

_To prove to father that I am a worthy son._

Thor closes his eyes. 

_Loki, this is madness._

_Is it madness? Is it? Is it?_

“What is that?” Steve asks. “The Casket?”

Sif responds. “A weapon, powerful enough to conquer a planet if the bearer desires. Only a Frost Giant may wield it.”

_I will not fight you, brother._

_I’m not your brother. I never was._

But he is. Loki told him that he was not foe; he signed the agreement to stay, stating his desire to continue repairing his bond with Thor. He said, he said. 

_You’re a talented liar, brother._

“So it does belong to him,” Natasha says, and Thor knows that she addresses him.

He opens his eyes and finds himself the focus of the other three, Natasha the most intent, though also the most difficult to discern. Thor regards her a moment and then shrugs. “It may. Laufey last used the weapon before Odin safeguarded the relic in his vault. But it is unknown if Laufey himself created the weapon or if he stole it from another.”

Natasha holds his gaze. Thor feels exposed beneath the stare, though he knows that Natasha lacks the ability to see within that Frigga possesses. “Why do you think he wants it?” she asks him now, her voice quiet.

_I remember a shadow. I remember you tossing me into an abyss, I who was and should be king._

_So you take the world I love as recompense for your imagined slights?_

“I… I do not know,” he says, looking away.

Natasha smirks. “Yes, you do. You’re just too afraid to say it.”

Thor clenches his jaw. He glares at Natasha, but she merely raises a brow at him, unaffected by his anger. After a moment, he looks away again, and Natasha shakes her head and turns to Sif. “You’re not afraid,” she says. “Why do you think Loki wants the Casket?”

Sif hesitates, her eyes darting from Natasha to Thor, but then she straightens her shoulders and says, “He wants it for its purpose, a weapon powerful enough to conquer a planet. He has always craved power, jealous that Thor, rather than he, will be king of Asgard.”

_I never wanted the throne. I only ever wanted to be your equal._

Natasha stares at Sif, her gaze impassive. Again, Sif does not relent. The silence between them persists and then Natasha turns to the Captain. “And you?” she asks. “What do you think?”

Thor looks at the Captain. He had sought council from the Captain regarding Loki; he knows that the agreement that Loki had signed only developed at the Captain’s prodding, his opinion as valued by S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Council as by Thor. Staring at him now, Thor feels hope rise in his chest, but he felt hope before and endured a knife to his side, a fall from the Carrier, and death at the hands of the Destroyer for his belief. 

The Captain gazes at Natasha, silent a moment, before saying, “How did he react when he realized that you lied to him? What did he say?”

The hardness in Natasha’s eyes softens. “He said that we tried hard to change, but we couldn’t. He said we are who we were, that change is a lie.”

“Did he tell you who he is?”

Natasha nods. “He said that he’s a monster. I’m a hunter and he’s a monster and that’s all we could ever be.”

_Asgard is a glorious dream. It is a wondrous lie. I look into its golden halls, and I see myself reflected there._

_I see the bastard son of Laufey._

“Did he propose this deal,” the Captain asks, “or did you?”

“I did.”

The Captain raises a brow. “And what do you have to do if you can’t get him this Casket?”

_Look at this! Look around you! You think this madness will end with your rule?_

_It’s too late. It’s too late to stop it._

Natasha hesitates. She looks beyond the Captain, beyond the room, back, Thor knows, to the past. “I help him leave,” she says, and Thor sees in her now how he felt when Loki looked at him, when he released Gungnir and fell into the Void. 

_Did you mourn?_ he had asked.

_We all did._

Natasha blinks, the distance fading from her eyes. She focuses again on the Captain. “ So why do you think he made the Casket the price for staying?”

_Whatever the reason, I am glad that Switzerland led you to accepting the offer._

_You are?_

And Thor did not see then, he did not see the look in Loki’s eyes as he stared at Thor.

_I sought your death three times, and yet here you are, demanding of me my regard for you._

_Why do you not hate me for what I’ve done?_

But he sees now.

_It’s too late._

_It’s too late to stop it._

Thor looks at Natasha. “Because he believes you will fail.” 

And Natasha stares at him, the relief in her eyes enough to make Thor bow his head. He still has so much to learn. He doubted Loki, but she believed. Perhaps someday she will help him as Jane helped him; perhaps Natasha will help him to see as she sees, to perceive clearly, to know truly, as Jane helped him to realize humility and sacrifice.

“I asked him to trust me,” Natasha says now, “and he thinks I didn’t trust him in return. You know how he reacted to that before.”

_I could have done it, Father. For you. For all of us._

_No, Loki._

Thor nods and Natasha continues. “He thinks he’s a monster. And if I fail, this only will confirm his belief, that he can’t be trusted, that he can’t change and that we all feel the same. Then he can justify his self-destruction. He can run again.”

_Did you mourn?_

_Did you mourn?_

_Did you mourn?_

“Then we will not fail,” Thor says. He closes the distance between himself and Natasha and lays a hand on her shoulder. “We will convince Odin to bestow upon us the Casket, and then we will convince Loki that all is not lost. We will persuade him,” he says, and, at that, Natasha smiles.

Thor looks over his shoulder at Sif and the Captain. He sees hesitation in Sif as well as doubt. “Odin will not part with the Casket,” she says when he meets her eyes. “Not with how Loki wielded it before.”

“Father sent Loki here for a purpose,” he counters. “He desired to save him. He will help.”

Sif regards him carefully. He knows that she never forgave Loki for the lies that he told about Odin and Frigga when he was banished. “Such faith in Loki,” she says, her voice soft with awe, “despite all that he has done. Do you truly believe that he can be more?”

Thor nods. He watches as the Captain turns to her and catches her eye. “Loki’s not the only one who’s been doubted in the past,” he says quietly. They stare at each other, and Thor wonders if perhaps he and Loki are not the only Asgardians to fall before one from Earth.

After a moment, Sif nods and turns to Thor and Natasha. “Then I will do what I can to aid you in this endeavor,” she says.

Thor faces her. “Thank you. If you can, when we arrive in Asgard, perhaps you could explain to our friends the changes that have occurred within Loki during his time here. They will believe the account coming from you.”

At that, Sif smirks. “Well, perhaps not believe,” Thor says, a smile appearing on his face as well, “but at least not doubt in total.” He looks at the Captain now. “Are you ready for a return voyage on the Bifrost?”

The Captain hesitates, striving, as ever, to be polite. Laughing at the look on his face, Thor turns to Natasha and says, “The Bifrost—”

“I know,” she says, starting to move toward the door. “It’s quite a ride.” Her hand closes on the handle, and she looks back at Thor, Sif, and the Captain. “At least I won’t be shot this time. I’m sure Frigga will be thankful for that.” 

At that, Natasha smiles and then she opens the door and walks into the hall. Thor glances at Sif and the Captain before following her. As he enters the hall, he feels hope rise within him once more.

_I’m not your brother. I never was._

But Loki is, and he will be still.

For this, Thor will hope.

*


	29. Day Two, Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint rubs a hand across his face and sighs. Before now, he would never have described his life prior to the Avengers as simple, Clint first an orphan and a runaway and a circus freak before he became a drifter and a prisoner and a spy, but life as an Avenger makes the previous thirty or so years seem like a sleek straight line, the line now tangled, the geometry convoluted.

The key from Natasha lies by the bottle of scotch from Bruce encircled by the headphones from Darcy beside the tablet from Tony that covers the card from Steve that shows Clint using the bow and arrows brought by Fury that are perched at the edge of the table. Clint stares at the key, just in case echoing in his brain. Just in case she fails. Just in case she dies.

_Nat, what is going on?_

_Nothing I can’t handle._

Clint rubs a hand across his face and sighs. Before now, he would never have described his life prior to the Avengers as simple, Clint first an orphan and a runaway and a circus freak before he became a drifter and a prisoner and a spy, but life as an Avenger makes the previous thirty or so years seem like a sleek straight line, the line now tangled, the geometry convoluted.

_You’re the most important person in the world to me._

_Do you love him?_

_You have heart._

Clint remembers the clarity of his life under the subjugation of Loki, his only concern his next target, the rest of the world awash in white noise through which he could not see. But the clarity had been a lie, a delusion produced by an ancient cube wielded by a madman who had forced Clint to fight and kill on command.

And when Clint woke, he found himself lost in the fog of who he used to be and who he had now become.

_Have you ever had someone take your brain and play? Pull you out and stuff something else in?_

_You know what it's like to be unmade?_

She does, she did, she killed the woman who unmade her, so how can she love him, the monster that played with Clint? How could they offer him a place on the team after he killed Phil? How could they plan to live alongside him after he manipulated them to the brink of destruction? 

_Because he understands._

_Can you stand in the middle of a giant fireball and not die?_

What did they see that Clint did not?

A knock sounds on the door. Clint looks up, sees the door open, and Darcy poke her head through the gap. 

She smiles when she sees him. “Awesome,” she says. “You’re awake.” She shoves the door open the rest of the way and enters, dragging a large canvas bag filled to the brim behind her. Clint feels his mouth curve into the beginnings of a smile as she heaves the bag onto the nearby chair and then plops down beside him on the bed. 

“So,” she says. “How are you?” She doesn’t wait for a response, but leans in and peers at him through narrowed eyes. “You seem better. You were kind of… twitching the last time I saw you.”

Clint raises a brow. “Twitching?” 

Darcy nods. “Twitching.”

Clint suppresses the grin that wants to form and glances down at his hands and his arms instead. “Well, I’m not twitching now,” he says, “so I must be better.”

“Good. Because, seriously, dude, what you did in New Mexico was the second most awesome thing I’ve ever seen.”

Now Clint smiles. “Only the second?”

“Yeah,” she says, her eyes sparkling. “I don’t think anything’s going to top Thor eating an entire box of Pop-Tarts, five stacks of pancakes, six scrambled eggs, eight pieces of bacon, and three cups of coffee all in the span of forty-five minutes.”

At the sound of Thor, the smile slips on Clint’s face. Thor and Loki. Loki and Thor. They had sent his world spinning when they first came to Earth, starting Phase 2 and the Avengers, and everything, everything they have done since has only knocked it further off course, first with Phil and Natasha and now with Doom and _just in case_.

Darcy narrows her eyes at him again, this time in concern. Clint brings the smile back to his face and looks at the bag in the chair. “So,” he says, “what did you bring me?”

Darcy arches her brows. “Wow. _Some_ one thinks a bit highly of himself. Who says this is for you? Maybe I just like hauling everything I own around in a ginormous bag.”

Clint gives her a look. She holds his gaze, daring him to call her on her lie, and he almost shakes his head: he cannot recall the last time he had flirted with a woman. A beat passes and then Darcy breaks, a smile blooming across her face, and Clint feels the knot in his chest loosen a bit at the smile. “Fine,” she says, “The stuff’s for you. But, honestly, you saved my life. That crazy asshole would have killed me to get Jane’s stuff, so I owe you, like, a hundred more bags.”

_Thank you._

_Don’t thank me. Not for this._

_I’m not._

“You don’t owe me anything,” he says, his eyes drawn now to the key. 

“Then you don’t want any of the stuff?”

Clint looks at Darcy again. The sly look in her eyes brings a smirk to his face. “Now, I didn’t say that.”

“Of course you didn’t,” Darcy says, smirking in return. “Because you know that everything in this bag is fabulous.”

“Is it?” he asks. “Now who thinks highly of themselves?”

“Me,” she says, laying a hand on her chest. “Mostly because I spent the entire day yesterday pestering anybody that I could find who knew you to tell me stuff about you.” She pauses and looks at him, her brows drawn together. “But not in a creepy, stalker way,” she says.

“Good to know.”

Darcy pulls the chair closer and peers inside the bag, careful to keep the items within hidden from view. She waves her hand over the opening like a magician with a top hat and then she reaches in. Her hand closes around something, and she smiles.

“Now,” she says, looking at him, her eyes again sparkling with a tale to be told. “The first person that I ran into, of course, was Thor because he and Jane had to continue the next phase of their epic desert love. And when I mentioned you, he kept talking about the eye of the hawk. I had no clue what he was talking about. I figured he’d just been hit by one too many cars, you know, but then the big bald guy—”

“Fury,” he supplies.

“Right. Then he walked by and said that Hawkeye was your superspy code name, so that inspired me to buy you this.” She pulls a mug from the bag, a bit skinnier but twice as tall as a normal coffee cup, the mug a dark brown and textured in the shape of feathers. Darcy turns the mug to face Clint. A yellow beak extends from the rim of the cup, the beak bordered by two white and red eyes; at the bottom of the mug, Clint sees ‘Hawk Shot’ written in elaborate lettering.

“That,” he says, “is the _ugliest_ thing I have ever seen.”

“I know,” she says. “That’s what makes it so fabulous.”

Leaning over, Darcy places the mug on the table beside the bottle of scotch, making sure that one of the beady red eyes stares directly at Clint; then she reaches into the bag once more. “Okay,” she says, looking at back at him, “so the second person that I ran into who told me about you was your partner.”

At that, Clint stills. He feels his heart start to pound, but he keeps his face composed as he says, “Natasha.”

Darcy nods. “She is fierce, man. Super intense. She was getting a bullet hole or something stitched up when she was talking to me. It was gross. But,” she says, drawing in a deep breath to continue, “she had the best things out of everyone to say about you.”

_Someday, you’ll find somebody who deserves you._

His chest burns for air, but he cannot breathe. “Like what?” he asks, the words catching in his throat.

Darcy purses her lips for a moment as she remembers. Then she says, “She said your favorite movie is _Cool Hand Luke_ , which, of course it is, because Paul Newman is the best. And that you like dark roast coffee, black. And,” and here she turns to the bag, unearthing a stuffed animal about the size of a basketball, a rhinoceros, “she said your favorite place that you’ve visited so far is Kenya because of the black rhinos.”

Clint stares at the rhinoceros, remembering the visit from two years ago. He had already seen a vast chunk of the world by then, but the wilds of Kenya had still struck him, the sun rising large and luminous over the plains. The group that he had traveled with had been lucky enough to pass a female rhino and a young calf cavorting around. The sight had made him contemplate children for the first time in his life.

He had always meant to return, to bring Natasha with him this time, but work had always gotten in the way, and now. And now. His eyes fall on the key. 

_Why him? Why not— why not me?_

_You have heart._

_Nothing I can’t handle._

Clint closes his eyes and turns away. 

What did she see? What did she see in him?

What didn’t he understand?

Clint feels Darcy shift on the bed. She draws in a breath, then says, “Are you… Are you okay?”

And Clint can’t lie; he can’t bring back the smile, not now, not about this. He shakes his head.

“Do you, I don’t know, do you want to talk about it?”

He opens his eyes and looks at her. Darcy stares at him, her brows drawn together again in concern, and Clint knows that he should say no; they barely know each other, but he feels the tears, he feels himself slipping, he feels himself falling into this tangled web of him and Loki and Natasha and Phil and the team and the city and the white noise that still buzzes in the back of his brain when he tries to sleep at night.

“It might take a while,” he says.

Darcy shrugs. “I don’t mind.”

“You might not like what you hear.”

She looks at the scotch, at the bow and arrows, at the plants on the table beside him. “I know I don’t know anything about being a spy or dealing with gods or people who can shoot purple lightning from their hands,” she says. “But I can listen, and maybe that will help.”

Darcy returns her gaze to Clint, and he feels the knot loosen a bit more in his chest. He nods, and she moves the bag from the chair to the floor and then sits in the chair, drawing her legs beneath her. Then she looks at him and waits. 

Clint breathes in once and he breathes in again and then he begins.

*

The winds again still and the light again fades, but this time Natasha does not fall. She opens her eyes and finds Frigga before her once more. Thor moves to Frigga and embraces her, Sif bows to her, and even Steve nods his head in deference, understanding quickly the importance of this woman, but Natasha merely stares. Maybe if Frigga did more than open the Bifrost and give out feathers, then Natasha would bow, but not until then.

As if she knows, and Natasha knows that she knows, Frigga raises a brow. Natasha raises one in return, and she sees Frigga smile.

Turning now to Sif, she says, “If you wish, you may ride my horse to the Warriors. They gather in the Floating Tower.”

Sif bows again. “Thank you, my Queen.” She looks once at Steve before turning and striding from the chamber. Outside, Natasha hears a horse exhale a short breath and then she sees Sif take off down the bridge of rainbow light, her long hair streaming behind her as she rides away.

Looking now at Frigga, Natasha sees that she has held out her hand. “Time is short, even here,” she says. “But the Rainbow Bridge is long. I can take you to Odin instead.”

Natasha nods and starts toward Frigga. She places her hand on top of Thor’s, his own resting on Frigga’s, and waits. 

“Do not be alarmed, Captain,” Thor says. “My mother excels at teleportation. You will not be harmed.” Natasha looks back over her shoulder at Steve, who has not moved. He eyes them uncertainly. Behind him, Natasha sees Heimdall, his back to them, gazing at the worlds beyond. 

Natasha looks at Steve again. “It’s not bad,” she says. “Not like the Bifrost. You kind of feel like you’re underwater, but in space. If that makes any sense.”

Steve shakes his head, but he starts forward. He lays his hand on top of Natasha’s and breathes in slowly. Natasha feels a smile tug at her lips as she looks at him. “Do you owe Fury another ten dollars?” she asks.

He nods and breathes in again, and Natasha hopes for a time when she can tell him about Vanko and the serum and ask him about becoming Captain America. She hopes for time, time with him, time with Clint, time with Loki. Perhaps she will win and acquire more time. Perhaps she can convince the god-king of Asgard to give his self-destructing son a weapon powerful enough to destroy a world. Perhaps she will not have to steal the Casket and lie. Perhaps she can be good.

Perhaps she has the strength to be bad once more.

_He did not know._

_So I should thank you for your deception?_

Looking at Frigga again, Natasha hears the air crackle, she sees green light flash, and then they teleport away, reappearing moments later before a set of enormous golden doors, taller than any Natasha has seen.

“Whoa,” Steve says. He cranes his neck to look at the building, presumably the palace, the spire before them reaching hundreds of feet into the air and gleaming in the warm light.

“Yeah,” Natasha says, turning to look behind them. They stand in the center of a walkway that extends around the palace. Every couple hundred feet an arch extends from the palace over the walkway, supported by vast columns in the shape of Asgardian warriors. Beyond the columns, she sees buildings more fantastic than her imagination can comprehend, defying most of the laws of physics in their construction.

_Is this like Asgard?_

_It is but a shadow._

At the memory of Venice, of Loki in the Doge’s Palace, of the elegy in his eyes, Natasha pulls herself from the wonders of Asgard and turns back to the doors. She finds Frigga again watching her, but Natasha looks away, unwilling to reveal that moment to her, or any moment with Loki, their time their own.

She hears Thor open the doors to the palace, and then she feels a hand in hers. Looking up, she sees Frigga still peering at her, but this time her gaze is not penetrating, but wistful. “I hope that you succeed in your endeavor,” she says. “I miss my son and desire for him to return, if only for a short while, and to return with you.”

Natasha sees Steve follow Thor into the chamber beyond the doors, but still Frigga holds her hand. She steps close to Natasha and says, her voice hushed, the words insistent, “Do not lie to him, for he will see it, but do not bow to him either, for he will respect you for it. He came to you for a reason to aid Loki. Trust your instincts.” 

Natasha stares at Frigga and then she nods. Frigga releases her hand before turning and walking into the chamber. Natasha looks again behind her, at this irrational, surreal, absurd land, and she feels her heart begin to pound in her chest. For the second time in as many weeks, she was about to tell the god-king of Asgard to do something for Loki that she knows that absolutely nobody will like. 

_Nat, what is going on?_

_Nothing I can’t handle._

Shaking her head, Natasha steps into the chamber and then stops. The chamber is not a chamber, but a hall, an amphitheatre, an enormous cavern glittering in light that filters down through the center of the building. She looks to her left and realizes that Frigga had brought them to a side entrance, the main one nearly a thousand yards away. Natasha can barely see the other side of the hall, the size so vast. She knows that, if full, the room could hold thousands upon thousands of people, all of them bowing to and before one man: Odin.

Natasha looks at the throne, a hundred feet from where she stands, where Odin now sits. She feels his power in the way he grips his spear, in the way that Thor kneels before him and how Steve bows his head. But as Natasha looks at him, she recalls St. Petersburg and how Anna sat in her chair, how Anna held her gun, Anna so sure, so certain of her power too, and anger begins to stir within her. And Natasha knows that Odin is not Anna, she knows that Odin cares for Loki in a way that Anna never did for her, but still, but still, he sits as she sat, he lied as she lied, and anger flares bright and hot within her.

_Loki has endured enough deception._

_You believed in Natasha Romanov and I believed in Loki Odinson, but they are nothing._

Odin sits on his throne, the man behind the curtain, the puppet master pulling the strings, lying to Loki and banishing Loki and demanding of Natasha her aid for Loki, and while he sits, so secure in his paradise, they flounder, secure in nothing, least of all themselves. 

Because of him. Because of Anna.

_When did you know?_ she had asked.

_I always knew,_ he said.

_Then you are who I made you to be._

Natasha starts forward. She stares at Odin and she strives for calm, she strives for balance, but she fails. Odin watches her approach and she fails, rage swirling fast and thick within her. 

Odin regards her as she stops before the throne, and Natasha glares in return. She sees Steve eye her, ever the peacemaker, but the last thing that Natasha wants now is peace. She is a hunter, and this is the man who had made Loki and then broke him, and all she wants now is the kill.

“Ms. Romanov,” he says.

“Odin.”

Time slides along, and Natasha wonders if millennia pass outside the realm as Loki had claimed in Switzerland. The memory of the church, of Loki and the saint and the secrets they exposed to each other there, makes her ache, makes her grit her teeth as Odin continues to stare.

_The very first thing you asked me was how to stop being who you were._

_You called yourself an animal._

_You hate yourself._

But why? Why would he hate himself so much that he couldn’t even look at himself in his true form? Why would he chose instead to appear as a man from Asgard, rather than as one from Jotunheim, even after everything, after Odin’s deception and his own fall, after his imprisonment and then banishment?

_Why aren’t you dead?_

_Because Odin loves sadism almost more than his missing eye._

Natasha looks at Odin. “I advised you against deception,” he begins, “yet you—”

“Don’t,” she says. “Don’t even start with deception. Don’t add hypocrisy to your list of sins.”

Thor stares at her, his eyes wide; Natasha doubts that he anticipated this approach to their goal. Odin narrows his own eye at her. “My sins?” he asks, his voice low, but with the same thrum of power that she has heard within Loki’s. “What do you know of my sins, Ms. Romanov?”

“More than I care to,” she says. “You lied to him about who he is, but I can’t condemn you for the lie. I lied to him, too. But what I can condemn you for, what I don’t understand—” And here she must stop, she must draw in a breath, she must be calm. “What I don’t understand,” she says after a moment, “is how you let him hate himself his entire life.”

Thor takes a step toward her. “Natasha—”

“Silence,” Odin says, his eye on Thor. “Let her speak.” A second passes and then Thor steps back, his mouth a tight line. Odin returns his attention to Natasha. 

She holds his stare. She will not, she will not relent. Not to him. “You let him live his whole life here thinking he was one of you, and maybe you had a reason, maybe it was for the best. But while you did that, while you hid the truth from him, what did you let him hear about the people from Jotunheim?”

Odin stays silent, but Natasha sees Thor lower his head, she sees Frigga close her eyes, and she knows she was right. “If I were to leave this chamber now and walk up to one of your subjects and ask them their opinion of the people from Jotunheim, what would they say?” she asks. “Would they say they’re monsters? Would they say they’re animals?”

_Natasha, the huntress. You want to see the monster, hunter?_

_You want to see the animal inside?_

“Should I have lied to him?” Odin asks. “Should I have spoken false about our prior contentions with the Frost Giants? They do crave war. They lust for battle, for power.”

“No, but you’re the king, aren’t you? The all-powerful Odin. You couldn’t have changed the view after that? You had centuries to try to make things better, to make sure that the man that you claim is your son grew up on a world that didn’t hate everything about him.”

Odin tightens his grip on his spear. “Change such as this does not occur so easily.”

_You’ve changed since then. So have I._

_Change. That’s the cruelest lie you’ve told._

Natasha feels her right hand clench into a fist. “That’s what Loki said, too, right before he told me that all he could be was a monster.” She takes a step toward Odin now, and she knows that Steve still watches her and Thor does, too, but she keeps her gaze fixed on Odin. “That’s why he asked for the Casket,” she continues, “so you’ll stay the same as you always have and say no and prove him right.”

Odin regards her, his face a mask that she cannot penetrate. “The choice is not as simple as you present it to be, Ms. Romanov. I wish to aid my son. You know this. This is why I came to you. But the Casket possesses power beyond anything you can imagine.”

Natasha raises a brow. “Even the Tesseract?”

Silence greets her query.

Thor steps forward now. He waits until Odin looks at him and then he says, “Father, you sent Loki to Midgard for this reason, so that he would find within him more than rage, as I found more than arrogance within me. We cannot fail him now, not as we failed him before.”

“And if he fails us?” Odin asks. “Loki needs no guidance with the Casket as he did the Tesseract. The Casket will open upon his command, and the ice within could consume the world. You saw Heimdall upon your return, and Loki opened the Casket on him for a moment, no more.”

Thor hesitates. He looks at Natasha and then at Steve, who watches Odin carefully. Odin turns to him, and Steve studies him as he studied Natasha just an hour before. “Maybe we are wrong,” he says now. “Maybe all that Loki has told us has been a lie and he’ll turn on us again. But that doesn’t mean we should respond with fear. That will accomplish nothing.”

“We’re not naïve,” Natasha says, looking back at Odin. “We know the risk. We fought the risk. We will again if we have to.”

“Will you?” Odin asks. He stares at Natasha, the same stare that she has seen on Heimdall, on Frigga, on Loki so often, her skin no more than glass, her heart displayed beneath. “If he wields this Casket against your world, do you have the strength to oppose him—?”

“To kill him?” she asks. 

Odin does not relent. “Yes.”

She arches a brow. “Did you?” 

_Why aren’t you dead?_

Odin looks away.

_Maybe he’s giving you a chance._

“We will not kill Loki,” Thor says now, glaring at both Odin and Natasha. “He is not beyond reason. If he falls, we shall try again.”

_He’s a fool._

_He’s your family. And you should be thankful for it._

Odin looks at Thor, and Natasha still sees power, she still sees a god and a king, but she also sees a father and a man, one who draws in a long breath, exhaustion at the corners of his eyes. She feels the same within herself, but she will not relent. Clint never had for her, not even when she ran. Natasha cannot now for Loki, not when she sees what he could be and what she could be too, not when she’s seen the possibility of them.

_You think saving a man no more virtuous than yourself will change anything?_

_A gift should be repaid with one in kind. You saved me. In every way._

_You came to me in July, and you changed my life. So… quickly. So completely._

She may have been a lie, and he may have been a monster, but they can be more, of this Natasha is sure, and she will prove this to Loki and to Anna and to Odin and to anyone else who doubts along the way, even Tony, even Fury, even Clint.

No matter the cost.

“You have until tomorrow,” Odin says to her now though he still looks at Thor, “before he expects your return?”

“Yes.”

“Please give me tonight to consider your argument. And please consent to pass the night in the palace. I know Thor and Frigga especially desire for you both to stay.” 

Natasha glances at Steve, who shrugs, and then at Frigga, who regards her once more. Perhaps if she succeeds, if Odin gives her the casket, if Loki decides to stay, then Natasha can slip once more into the shadows and leave the bright glare of the spotlight to Tony or Thor or Steve, to one better suited or more willing for such publicity.

She looks back at Thor and nods, and he smiles.

“Excellent,” he says. He starts toward her and Steve, his arms extended. “First, if you consent, you must meet my friends. As with Sif, all are most eager to meet you both.” Thor leads them from the throne, back to the side entrance, and Natasha follows, glancing once behind her. She sees Odin at the throne, his eye closed, Frigga kneeling beside him, her hand on his arm, and she hopes, she hopes, a shiver passing through her, a tremor in the Helm of Awe as she steps from the palace into the warm sun, and for a moment, she thinks she sees him, in the shadow of the walkway, from the corner of her eye, clad in a suit, the makila once more in his hands, but when she turns, he is gone.

_Someday, Loki, you will trust me again._

*


	30. Day Two, Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A supernova explodes to the east. A Dark Elf stirs on Svartalfheim. The man known as Doom still lurks somewhere on Midgard, searching for a path past Heimdall to destroy the wonders of Asgard, but Heimdall defies his purpose as sentry to the realm and instead watches her.

Darcy walks the halls of Stark Tower and broods. Or at least she thinks she broods, never having actually done it before. And it’s not because she’s never _thought_ about anything before. She has, though she knows that most people that look at her see only boobs and lips and completely miss her brain. It’s just that, in comparison to what puzzled or troubled her in the past, this is so much _bigger_. This is murderers and spies and people who shoot purple lightning from their hands. This is mind control and world domination and giant monster aliens from space. 

And she is Darcy. Just Darcy. And she knows that she’s not just Darcy, not anymore, not after she met people from an entirely different _planet_ , but she is. With this, she’s just Darcy, but she doesn’t know if just Darcy can deal with this. 

She turns the corner to another hall, remembering the look on Clint’s face as he tried to explain. He looked like a drowning man if the drowning man was a badass spy who knew that he was drowning and wanted to punch someone in the face because of it. And if a badass spy like Clint felt like he was drowning beneath mind control and aliens and people who could shoot purple lightning from their hands, then what would she feel? What would happen to her if she stayed?

Darcy reaches the end of the hall and pushes the button for the elevator. She thinks she has a few more floors to pace before she reaches the top, but she can’t remember what the nice machine (robot? butler? brain in a jar?) said earlier about the building. Darcy supposes she could ask him (it?) again, but before she can do so, the light dings for the elevator, the doors open, and Pepper walks out. Darcy liked the talk that she had with Pepper and Tony the day before, the two of them bantering like a couple from a screwball comedy, Tony telling Darcy about Clint’s time in the circus and how she absolutely, positively had to buy him the ugliest clown figurine that she could find. And she had. She did. Darcy bought Clint the clown, but she never got to give it to him.

The rest got in the way.

Pepper looks at her now. She blinks once, then tilts her face toward the ceiling. “Jarvis?” she says. 

“Yes, Ms. Potts?”

“Please tell Tony I’ve been delayed. A conference call. Something boring so he doesn’t feel the need to snoop.”

“Yes, Ms. Potts,” Jarvis says again, and Darcy swears that she can hear it (him?) laugh. But she knows that’s absurd. Robots don’t laugh. But maybe they do. Portals could open in the sky and your brain could be taken over by a glowing blue cube and the man beside you could suddenly turn into a very angry version of the Jolly Green Giant, so maybe robotic butlers who kept their brains in a jar could laugh as well.

“I think I need a drink,” Darcy says, looking at Pepper.

Pepper nods. She returns to the elevator and indicates for Darcy to follow. “You looked like you might,” she says. “I know I did the first time I saw Tony in the suit.” 

Darcy steps into the elevator beside Pepper. “Did it help?” she asks.

Pepper shakes her head. “Not really.” She presses the button for the penthouse. “But it tastes good, so there’s that at least.”

The doors close before them, and Darcy feels the elevator begin to rise. After a few seconds, the doors open again, this time to an empty room, the only feature another door to another elevator. Pepper crosses to the second elevator and presses a button. When this door opens, they step in and Pepper looks at her and says, “May I ask what happened? You seemed okay when you came here a couple days ago.” 

Darcy sees concern in her eyes, and she knows that, as much as Clint needed to talk to someone, even her, someone that he barely knew, she needs to talk to someone, too. And Darcy could try to find Jane, but Pepper is here and she’s so together and cool and competent that she says, “I talked with Clint. Or I listened to him. I took him the gifts that I bought, and he seemed so… sad. And lost. So I asked him if he wanted to talk, and he told me, he told me, that it was, I don’t know,” she says, the elevator door opening now to a posh suite with an absolutely breathtaking view of the city, “but I said it didn’t matter. And I thought it didn’t. Because, you know, I met Thor. And his friends. I watched them all vanish into a cloud after defeating the giant suit of armor that tried to kill us all by shooting fire from its face, so I thought I would be okay. But now…”

“Now you don’t know,” Pepper says.

Darcy nods. She watches Pepper cross to a bar with every kind of liquor ever made and pull a bottle of bourbon from the shelf; grabbing two glasses, she walks over to the low couch in the middle of the room, opens the bottle, and pours them two generous servings. Darcy sits beside her, trying to still the thoughts racing through her brain.

Leaning back on the couch, her glass in hand, Pepper asks, “Is there anything in particular that he told you about that—” She pauses now, diplomatic, and Darcy almost smiles.

“That freaked me out?” she asks, raising a brow.

Pepper nods. 

Darcy reaches for her drink, the amber liquid swirling in a gentle circle as she draws it close to her. “He mostly talked about Loki,” she says. “And I couldn’t… I couldn’t really understand what he was saying because he said that he didn’t understand, so…”

“Understand what?”

Darcy looks at Pepper. “Everything. But mostly why Loki’s here after what Clint said he’s done.”

Pepper nods again and takes a sip of her drink. “I understand. I asked Tony the same thing when they offered Loki the deal.”

“What did he say?” 

Pepper hesitates, peering at her. 

“You don’t have to—” Darcy begins. 

“No,” Pepper says. “I will. I’m just trying to figure out where best to start.” She leans forward now and sets her glass on the table beside the bottle. Darcy takes a sip of her drink. Another few seconds pass before Pepper says, “Jarvis?”

“Yes, Ms. Potts?”

“Show the footage.”

A screen appears before them, hanging in midair, and then Darcy sees a hall in Stark Tower like the one outside Clint’s room. In the footage, a man stands in the hall; he wears a white shirt and a pair of black pants, and Darcy sees burns on his face and hands. 

“Loki,” Pepper says. “A few days after this.” The footage changes to a shaky recording of a forest on a snow-covered mountain. The camera pans to the right, and Darcy sees a giant ball of fire swirling around two figures. The camera zooms in, and the figures resolve themselves into Loki and Doom, weapons poised to strike one another. “And a few moments after this.” The screen changes, and Darcy sees Thor and Loki conversing in a room like Clint’s. Loki lies on the bed. He turns to Thor, who sits perched in a chair, and Darcy hears him say, “I sought your death three times, and yet here you are, demanding of me my regard for you. Are you disturbed? Why do you not hate me for what I’ve done?” Thor leans forward, and though Darcy can’t see his face, she hears the concern in his voice when he says, “Because you hate yourself. No man should suffer more than that.” The screen changes again, returning to the first scene, Loki outside the room, and Darcy sees him look at the door and hesitate. He closes his eyes and breathes in and then he squares his shoulders before easing into the room. Then it shifts again, and Darcy sees Natasha in a bed like the one Clint rests in now, like the one Loki sat in before, but here Loki lies beside her, watching her sleep, and the look on his face makes Darcy pause.

“Thank you, Jarvis,” Pepper says. The screen and the footage disappear. Pepper reclaims her glass and then turns to her. “How much do you know about Tony?” she asks, and Darcy blinks, thrown by the swift change in focus.

“A little,” she says, purposefully vague because she doesn’t want to talk about her father. Not yet. Not if she doesn’t have to.

“Well, he’s brilliant,” Pepper says, a smile starting to form on her face at the thought of Tony. “And he can be charming, sometimes infuriatingly so. He cares, too. He really does, even if he doesn’t show it much.” Pepper pauses now. She takes a drink of the bourbon. Darcy sees concern again in her eyes, though this time not for her. “But he can be his own worst enemy,” she continues, her voice soft. “And he was for a while. A narcissistic, self-destructive diva according to S.H.I.E.L.D.” She pauses again and looks at the place where the screen had been, her gaze subdued. “Tony sees the worst of himself in Loki. He never killed anybody, not like Loki has, not for those reasons, but he didn’t care for a long time either, and, to him, now, that’s just as bad. So he sees this and he thinks, ‘Maybe. Maybe he can change, too. Maybe he can care.’”

Darcy looks at the empty space, recalling the look on Loki’s face as he gazed at Natasha. “But hasn’t he left?” she asks. “Hasn’t Loki taken some weapon—?”

“Yes,” Pepper says, “but it’s complicated.” The smile returns to her face. “It usually is with the Avengers. It was with Tony, which is why I almost left.”

“You?” Darcy raises a brow. “But you’re so… adult,” she says, “and with it.”

Pepper laughs. “Thank you. I’ve had a lot of practice working with Tony. Mostly because working with Tony means more than just working with Tony.” Here the smile starts to fade, and the look in her eyes becomes solemn once more. “There’s Tony, of course, who would try the patience of anyone just by being him. But now there’s Iron Man, and Iron Man comes with enemies and kidnappings and explosions and the possibility of death once or twice a day. And there’s S.H.I.E.L.D. too with their spying and covert operations and secret agendas, and the Avengers. And, individually, the Avengers can be a lot to handle, but collectively, they take some getting used to. And that doesn’t even take into account their enemies and their plans to take over the world or their desire to find a way to travel to one in order to destroy it. And in the middle of all that, there’s you, and you can’t fly and you’ve never thrown a punch in your life, and now you’re in the middle of real life superheroes and it can be—”

“Overwhelming?” Darcy asks.

Pepper nods.

“So why did you stay?”

The smile returns to Pepper’s face, and it makes Darcy wish for the day when she can smile that way about someone, too. “For Tony. We’re together, we actually got together the night I told him I was going to leave, but it’s not just that.” She leans forward now, her gaze insistent. “Working with Tony lets him be Iron Man, and that, what he can do, what they can do, is so much more than what I could do if I left. And it is dangerous. You could die. People that you know, that you care about, die. But it’s worth it.” Pepper pauses and sips again at her drink. She regards Darcy for a moment and then says, “But you know this, or some of it at least. You stayed with Jane after what happened in New Mexico the first time. You must have had a reason.”

Darcy shrugs and looks away. “It seems dumb now that you said yours.”

“No reason is dumb,” Pepper says, “if it’s genuine.” She pauses and smiles again, shaking her head. “Or some are, but most of those end with ‘It’s for science,’ and I doubt that’s your reason.”

“Hell, no,” Darcy says. “I hate science.”

Pepper quirks a brow at her. “But you work for an astrophysicist.”

Darcy lifts her glass and gulps down the rest of her bourbon. “It’s a long story,” she says. “And boring. Family stuff, you know.” Darcy reaches for the bottle. She glances at Pepper, who nods. Pouring another glass, she says, “But that’s not the reason I stayed. I mean, if I hadn’t, Jane would’ve been alone and that was just too tragic to contemplate, Jane in the middle of nowhere with nothing but her math and some cacti to keep her company.” Darcy shakes her head. If only Jane could do her science somewhere else, in a town with more than one stoplight at least, then being her assistant would be perfect. 

“But even that,” she says, “isn’t the real reason. I thought, I don’t know. I can’t believe I’m saying this out loud. I thought if I stayed, then Thor would come back like he said and maybe he would take Jane back to his world, and I could… I could go, too. Not to perv or anything,” she says quickly. “Though his friend with the moustache was kind of cute. It’s just… another planet, you know. That’s so cool.”

“So why the doubt?” Pepper asks.

Darcy looks down at her drink. She recalls again the look on Clint’s face as he tried to explain. She tried to help him, but she didn’t know what to say to his strange tale of Loki and Natasha and a man named Phil and Clint in the midst of it all, a tremor in his voice as he remembered. She licks her lips and draws in a breath and says to Pepper, “Because if the most badass man that I’ve ever met is freaking out over all of this, why wouldn’t I?”

Pepper eases forward and lays a hand on her arm. “What happened to Clint was… unique,” she says, “even by Avengers standards. And a lot of what he’s dealing with isn’t even about being an Avenger, so I wouldn’t use him as a guide to how well you would handle this life. Besides,” she continues, a mischievous gleam appearing in her eyes, “anyone who can taze Victor von Doom in the face is pretty badass herself.”

At that, Darcy laughs. “I was kind of awesome,” she says. Pepper laughs, too, and Darcy feels the panic that had been rising within her subside a bit. If Pepper stayed, if she found something here to make the portals and the mind control and the giant worm beasts from space worth it, then maybe Darcy could too. It sure as hell beat returning to Culver. Or going back home. Darcy almost shudders at that thought.

Looking at Pepper now, she says, “Thank you. For listening.”

“Anytime.” Pepper stands, but she indicates for Darcy to continue sitting. “I’m sorry,” she says, “but I have to go make sure that ‘It’s for science’ hasn’t set anything on fire in the labs. You’re welcome to stay here, though, if you like. The terrace is a nice spot to sit and think.”

“Thanks,” Darcy says. “I think I might. Just for while.”

“Take as long as you need,” Pepper says. She lays her glass on the table and then squeezes Darcy’s hand before starting for the elevator. Darcy watches her leave. Tomorrow, she’ll bug everyone she can find to learn things about Pepper so she can buy her the most random assortment of stuff that Darcy can find, but for now, she’ll sit, finish her drink, and contemplate her life as she watches the moon rise full and luminous over Manhattan.

*

A supernova explodes to the east. A Dark Elf stirs on Svartalfheim. The man known as Doom still lurks somewhere on Midgard, searching for a path past Heimdall to destroy the wonders of Asgard, but Heimdall defies his purpose as sentry to the realm and instead watches her. 

She sits on the Rainbow Bridge, halfway between the Bifrost and the Palace, her legs extended over the edge. The feast continues, he knows, but she left to sit at the end of the world and stare into the stars. Heimdall understands. He sees, but he desires not to be seen, and he would respect her wish as he has tried to since she first turned from him at the table on Midgard, but he cannot do so if he is to see. So he watches and he waits instead.

The supernova still explodes to the east, but the Dark Elf no longer stirs when he sees the flicker in the corner of his eye. Heimdall would smile, the flicker confirming what he has seen, but then he would be seen before he can speak and Heimdall must speak.

“I see you, Odinson,” he says, his gaze still on Natasha.

Time continues, but Heimdall waits. What is time to him? After a moment, the air before him shimmers and then Loki appears. He sits in a café in a city on Midgard, but he stands at the edge of the Bifrost, too, his gaze on Natasha. He wears his armor, but no expression in his eyes, but he is too late: Heimdall has already seen.

“Your powers have grown,” Loki says now. “To see what is unseen. That is impressive.”

Heimdall glances at Loki. “The Queen has consented to instruct me on how to penetrate the veil between reality and illusion. I have much yet to learn.” He pauses, so short a halting of time, yet in a pause, a world may change. Or fate. “As do you,” he continues, and now Loki turns to him. 

“Is that so?” he asks, raising a brow.

“Yes.”

Loki stares at him, but Heimdall waits. The silence will tempt Loki; the knowledge he does not yet know will burn him. The look on his face reveals much: his eyes his curiosity, the twist of his lips his contempt. Heimdall sees the war within him, Asgard and Jotunheim, his love and his hate, his desire to stay and his wish to go, so he waits, and time passes, and when Loki can no longer resist, he says, “Tell me, gatekeeper. What do I have yet to learn?”

Heimdall does not hesitate. “Forgiveness. Compassion. Though both have been bestowed upon you time and time through the ages.”

Loki narrows his eyes at him. “What do you know of such things, standing here so separate?”

“I know because I see,” Heimdall says. “You do not. At least not beyond yourself.” He turns to Natasha once more. She still sits on the edge of the bridge, her eyes closed, one hand over the wound in her chest.

Loki follows his gaze. His hands clench into fists and he says, “You speak out of turn.”

“Someone must.” Heimdall looks again at Loki. “You feel pain, but you are not the only being in the worlds to do so. To know this, all you must do is turn. She grieves for her lie, though her actions acquired the knowledge that you sought. What have your lies engendered through the ages, Odinson?”

Loki grits his teeth. “I am no son of Odin.”

“You are until he denies you, but he will not, though you deny him, you hate him, you lie to him, though you bring forth destruction across the realms. Neither will the Queen. Neither will Thor.” Heimdall returns his gaze to Natasha. “Neither will she,” he says. She crossed the stars for Loki; she risked death for him; and Heimdall has observed and he has seen, but still he does not know. “What within you elicits such loyalty?” he asks now, the words murmured, soft with confusion.

Silence greets his query. Heimdall turns to Loki, who stares at Natasha, his eyes troubled. “You do not know?” Heimdall asks, raising a brow. “You find nothing within yourself to explain their regard for you?”

Loki glances at him, but does not respond.

“If this is so,” Heimdall continues, “change. This world is not static, Odinson. You dismiss the descent of a leaf, but the fall chronicles the entirety of life and death. Such a span resides in us all. Even you, though you fear—”

“I am not afraid,” Loki says, anger burning now in his eyes. 

“Then why do you conceal yourself from her?”

Loki glares, but Heimdall merely shrugs and turns away. “See beyond yourself, Odinson. See what they see. Then you may know peace.” The universe expands before Heimdall, the circling of the planets serene, the stars violent in their conception and disintegration, and everywhere, everywhere, life, life in infinite variety, the elegance of Asgard, the austerity of Jotunheim, the poignant rush of Midgard.

He hears the air crackle behind him and then Loki speaks once more. “If I can’t?” he asks, and for the first time in centuries, Heimdall recalls the small boy trailing the King, his bright eyes wide as he stared at Heimdall, as he watched Thor charge around the chamber, tumbling to the floor before picking himself up and running again. But the boy stayed still, uncertain even then.

“Then you will run,” Heimdall says, “and they will find you and all will begin again, but all may not end as you wish it to end. Choose wisely, Odinson.” 

The air crackles once more, and Heimdall knows that Loki has returned to the chamber entrance to watch as he watched, still so unsure, so unwilling to relinquish the clarity of his rage for the ambiguity and risk of forgiveness, for her and for himself, too. But perhaps someday.

For this, Heimdall will hope.

*

The feast spans seven courses and nearly four hours. By hour two, Sif tires of the revelry. She wishes for a quiet moment alone with Steve, but the opportunity never comes, Volstagg and then Fandral and then Hogun each drawing Steve aside to converse with him about Midgardian food, battle tactics, the rest of the Avengers, war, and, in the end, Loki, the Warriors still struggling with her tale of his time on Midgard. And Steve, so polite, obliges, and Sif, too private, will not reveal her regard for him before the others by asking him for time alone, so she stays and she waits and she tries not to brood.

At the beginning of hour three, Natasha slips out. Sif sees Thor stand to follow, but Steve shakes his head and Thor sits once more. Sif watches from the window, she sees Natasha ease through the shadows away from the palace, and the more she learns about her, the more Sif desires to know, Natasha the only woman, save the Queen, who fights as Sif fights, who lives as Sif lives, but Natasha without the doubt. 

Sif recalls the way that Thor and Steve had listened to Natasha as she spoke of Loki, the respect they bestowed upon her for her opinion. She glances at the Warriors. They trust her prowess in battle, but she felt their doubt as she explained about Loki, their hesitation to believe her, even now after all their time together.

By the close of hour three, Sif can no longer endure, the room, the fire, the food and drink and merriment from the Warriors weighing her down, and she leaves as well. She sees Steve turn her way, but she also sees Fandral glance at them from the corners of her eyes, so she does not return the look. She hopes Steve understands. He understood so much before as they sat by the water on Midgard, about Sif, about Natasha, even about Loki.

_Such faith in Loki despite all that he has done. Do you truly believe that he can be more?_

_Loki’s not the only one who’s been doubted in the past._

So much change wrought in so short a time on Midgard, for Loki now and for Thor as well when Odin had banished him and Sif knows for her, too. As she walks from the palace, she feels the stillness of Asgard as stagnancy, the life that she saw on Midgard vibrant and bold. But Asgard is her home. She fought for centuries for her place as a warrior, but on Midgard, they welcomed her without hesitation. Even Natasha, when Sif doubted Loki, listened to her and did not protest her traveling with them to Asgard.

Sif follows the path to the Rainbow Bridge. Heimdall has seen. He understands. He can help her know her path as he has for so long, his view unencumbered by obligation or the past. Or love. 

_Thor told you about me?_

_Yes._

_What else did he say?_

_That you were the most honorable man that he knew, one worthy of Mjolnir._

On the bridge, Sif breathes in the silence, the stars beneath and above her. They soothe her mind, so uncertain now. In the distance, she sees Natasha sitting at the edge, her eyes closed. Sif hesitates, remembering Thor standing to follow but the nod from Steve restraining him. 

But she has to know. 

She continues on, stopping a few feet from Natasha. “May I sit?” she asks. Natasha turns to look at her, and Sif waits, holding her gaze; after a moment, Natasha nods and Sif eases down next to her. 

They stare at the stars, the silence broken only by the distant murmur of the water in the falls, and then Natasha says, “Is it over yet?”

Sif shakes her head. “As I left, Volstagg and Fandral were attempting to convince Steve to show them how to use a shield as he does.”

A small frown creases Natasha’s brow. “But Steve didn’t bring his shield.”

“I know. They intended to use a serving plate.”

Natasha glances at her now, and Sif shrugs. A beat passes and then a faint smirk appears on Natasha’s face; Sif feels one tug at her lips as well. Natasha looks past her to the palace. “I’m sure Odin will love that.” 

Sif hears the edge to her voice. “May I ask you a question?”

Natasha nods.

“What is it about Asgard that discomfits you?”

Natasha looks at Sif, the barest hint of surprise in the depths of her eyes. “Is it that obvious?” she asks. “Or can you read minds, too?”

Sif shakes her head. “No. I never had the patience for such magic. I merely observed.”

Natasha glances at the Bifrost. “Observation isn’t always so simple here.”

Sif follows her gaze. She sees Heimdall in the distance, his back to them, watching, watching, always watching. “No,” she says. “It’s not. Not for all. But I never had the patience for such sight either. Not like my brother.”

Natasha turns to her again. “Heimdall is your brother?”

Sif nods. “He was the only one in my family, save our father, who believed I deserved the status of warrior.” She looks at Natasha, hesitating, uncertain. “What did…?” she begins, but she stops, looking away. After a moment, she tries again. She must know. “Did Loki speak much of Asgard before?”

Natasha quirks a brow. “You mean, did he fill my head with lies about how horrible this place is, the golden apple rotten in the core?”

Sif feels her face warm with a blush, but she does not deny the claim. 

Natasha shakes her head. “He never spoke much of Asgard. He only said that nothing seems to change here.” She pauses and Sif meets her eyes. “Was he wrong?”

Sif looks back at the palace, and the uncertainty settles upon her once again. “No,” she says. “Is this what unnerves you about Asgard?”

“Partially.”

Sif turns back to Natasha. “And the other part?” she asks.

The smirk returns to Natasha’s face. “The fact that this is a golden apple rotten in the core.”

Sif works to keep her face calm, but she never excelled at subtlety. “May I ask why you believe this?”

Natasha does not hesitate. “Why do you have to keep proving that you deserve to be a warrior?”

“Are you so accepted on your world? Does no one doubt you there?”

Natasha turns away. Her voice is quiet when she says, “They do. But not because I’m a woman. Or at least not the ones who matter.”

“Why do they doubt you?” Sif asks. “The ones that you believe matter?”

Natasha glances again at the Bifrost. She swallows and then shifts, hesitating. Then she says, her voice still soft, “Because I’m rotten in the core, too.”

_He said he’s a monster. I’m a hunter and he’s a monster and that’s all we could be._

_She doesn’t let a whole lot through most of the time. Some people at S.H.I.E.L.D. think that’s because she doesn’t feel anything, but she does._

Sif shakes her head. “This cannot be true. Steve and Thor speak so highly of you. And you have engendered such a change within Loki—”

“Now you believe he’s changed?” Natasha asks, looking once more at Sif. “What happened to him only desiring power, enough to conquer a planet?”

Sif shrugs. “It is as you said. We on Asgard are resistant to change. That does not mean that we can’t. We just…”

“You need a little persuading,” Natasha says.

Sif smirks. “Yes. I suppose we do.”

“Is that why you want to leave?” Sif stares at her, shock, she knows, clear on her face, and now Natasha shrugs. “You’re not the only one who’s observed. You’re out here for a reason.”

“I didn’t… I don’t know,” Sif says. Words never favored her, not as they had Loki. She draws in a breath and attempts again. “Asgard is my home.”

“But?”

Sif surveys the palace, the Floating Towers, the sheer cliffs, the glimpse of the land on the other side of the world. “But after so long,” she says, her voice quiet, “I must continue to prove myself.” 

“And?”

Sif looks at Natasha, but she sees no ill intent in her eyes, just curiosity and something that approaches warmth. Perhaps someday they may be friends. For this, Sif will hope. “And he is unlike any man that I have met,” she says now, remembering the way that Steve had smiled at her as they left the garden in New York, the way he looked at her before she left the feast. She turns back to the palace. 

_Perhaps tomorrow you would consent to show me more of the city._

_I would like that._

“I know what you mean,” Natasha says, as focused on the past and the uncertain future, as Sif. 

Silence descends upon them now, marred only by the endless rush of water in the falls, and they sit, the stars stretched beneath them and above them, seeking solace and certainty at the edge of the world. 

*


	31. Day Three, Part One

Natasha stands before the door, hesitant, though Frigga had consented, though Thor had just disappeared down the hall after showing her the way, though Loki himself had exhibited no hesitation the first few times he had appeared to her, arriving in her bedroom with no regard for privacy or permission. Yet the circumstance is different now. She and Loki are different now, and Natasha does not know if he would consider this to be another violation of his trust or simply shrug off her curiosity, dismissing what had once belonged to him as the possessions of another man and another life. 

She weighs the risks against the advantages, but in the end, she decides on what has driven so many of her actions concerning Loki so far: unrelenting curiosity. She has to know.

Breathing in, Natasha grabs the handle before her and pushes against the heavy door, slipping into the bedroom before she can reconsider. A fire ignites in the hearth along the right wall as she closes the door behind her, as she pauses a moment to gaze at her surroundings. 

She stands on a rough stone floor. In the middle of the room, on a raised platform, she sees an enormous bed crafted from dark, gleaming wood, the linens so black and smooth they resemble a vat of ink. An immense mirror in a heavy gold frame hangs on the left wall. Natasha recalls Loki’s flat in India, the one item of decoration the ornate mirror behind the couch. If she wins, perhaps she can ask him about the significance of mirrors, their use for his magic.

If she wins.

Alongside the mirror, she sees a variety of weapons on display, and it is these that draw Natasha forward. Four line the wall in total. She passes a white bo staff first, the material reminiscent of marble. Along the length, carved and colored in a deep forest green, are intricate images of a dragon, the beast sailing over clouds, perched on a mountain, breathing flames that trail away in sleek, small curls. 

The next weapon brings her to a halt. A sword, slim and curved like a katana, adorns the wall, but the blade before her is not silver, but black, and not metal, but something like glass. Natasha leans in for a closer look, stopping when she hears the blade begin to hum. The rune on her face tingles as an etching on the blade collar starts to glow, two serpents intertwined in the shape of an S. Natasha reaches out and touches the symbol, and the room around her vanishes. She finds she is in the Louvre, Loki before her but his back to her, staring into a glass case at a small blue figurine carved from stone. She sees his reflection in the glass. As he tilts his head for a better look at the figurine, a tiny hippopotamus, his eyes find hers, and he stills.

They stare at each other, silent, and then Natasha says, “I like your sword.” He turns toward her, and she knows that he has heard her though she doubts that anyone else has. The other patrons of the museum pass them by, unaware of her sudden appearance. She waits for him to respond, but when he does not, she continues. “I would have asked for that instead of the Casket.”

Loki continues to stare, but still he does not respond and she thinks, perhaps, that she was wrong, that she hadn’t seen him in the shadows outside the palace or in the entrance to the Bifrost, but then he says, his voice soft, “There is no magic binding the sword. I can call it whenever I wish.”

“So why don’t you?” she asks. “It’s a beautiful weapon.”

He looks at her. “It is at that.”

She waits, but he says nothing more, and Natasha takes him in, his suit black, his hair longer than before though it’s only been a few days since she saw him last, and she tries not to feel hope at the shadows beneath his eyes, but she does. 

“What would happen if you called it now?” she asks. “Would I come too since I’m holding it?”

“Yes,” he says, arching a brow. “But you probably wouldn’t survive rematerialization.”

Natasha shrugs as she glances around the museum. “A pity. I do love the Louvre. I guess I’ll have to wait another hour or two until I can see it in person.”

“So soon?” he asks. “Your talk with Odin must have gone well.”

She smiles at the feigned innocence, at the feel of talking with him again. “You should know,” she says, the smile still on her lips. “You were there.”

He says nothing for a moment, and Natasha thinks that she’s pushed too far, that he’ll deny her claim, that he’ll reassert his charge of her arrogance, but then he smiles, a genuine one belonging to the God of Mischief, and she tries, she tries not to feel hope, but she does.

And then she sees Winter in the distance. 

He watches Loki; he stalks him. And Natasha doesn’t need to wonder how Winter found Loki because she knows them both, Winter that good and Loki that proud, walking boldly in public because what has he to fear from a simple man from Midgard. And Natasha doesn’t fear Winter killing Loki, but she fears Loki killing Winter, and she fears most of all a confrontation between the two prompting Fury to action, Fury and Phase 2.

_Even if I hear from you, if I don’t like what I hear, we’re going after him._

The smile fades from Loki’s face as he catches sight of her expression. “Natasha, what—?”

“Leave,” she says, looking back at him. “You’re not safe here.” She knows that Loki leaving might also prompt Fury to action, but the risk is less, she hopes, she hopes. 

“Why?” he asks. He begins to turn, to follow her gaze, and she wonders if he would recognize Winter somehow, one killer to another, but he freezes before he completes his turn, his eyes fixed on something behind her. She follows his gaze to find Frigga before them.

“We must go,” she says, looking at Natasha. Natasha begins to panic at the tension in her voice. “Time is short.”

Natasha turns back to Loki. He stares at her, his eyes wide. Beyond him, she sees Winter draw closer. “The church,” she says. “Go.”

Loki hesitates. “Why?” he asks again, but before Natasha can respond, Frigga lays a hand on her arm and pulls her back to Asgard. Loki’s bedroom reappears with a rush. Natasha releases the sword, and she sees Frigga pull it from the wall, then the air crackles, green light flashes, and they teleport again. Breathless, Natasha jerks away. She opens her mouth to ask Frigga why she pulled Natasha away, but torches flare along the bottom of the walls and she falls silent. They stand in a high-vaulted chamber at the end of a long flight of stairs. A walkway extends before them to the opposite wall, which glows beneath a pattern of carved stone. 

“I apologize for the swiftness of the departure,” Frigga says as she turns and strides down the walkway, the sword grasped by the handle in one hand. “But we must move quickly if we are to succeed.”

Natasha does not move. “What’s going on?” she asks.

Frigga stops a few feet from her. “Odin has rendered his judgment,” she says without turning. “He will not give Loki the Casket.”

Natasha closes her eyes. For a moment, she cannot speak, rage building within her, choking her, but then she says, “Why?” spitting the word between gritted teeth.

“He fears what will occur if others discover that Loki possesses the Casket. He hears whispers of the name Thanos, of his power and his hatred for Loki, and this troubles him.”

At this, Natasha opens her eyes. The Doge’s Palace rushes back upon her, the look in Loki’s eyes, the shadows in their depths, as he spoke of Thanos.

_What will happen now? Now that Thanos knows you’ve failed?_

_Something far worse than Hell._

Natasha looks at Frigga. “If Thanos hates Loki, wouldn’t Odin want him to be able to defend himself? Especially if he is that powerful?”

Frigga turns toward her, her face flushed with anger. “You think I did not say that, and more, last evening? Any counterargument you may conjure, Odin already knows. Yet he still feels this is the wisest course of action.”

“So what are we doing here?” Natasha asks.

Frigga raises a brow. Natasha sees Loki in the gesture, in the sly look in Frigga’s eyes. “We are going to steal the Casket,” she says.

Natasha blinks, thrown, then she narrows her eyes. “But Odin—” 

“Odin is king and therefore must consider the people of the Nine Realms in his decisions. I, however, need only consider my sons. Now, come,” Frigga says, turning and continuing down the path. She beckons for Natasha to follow. “Time is short.” 

*

The Tesseract floats before Tony, or the image of it does, small and blue and sparkling. He flicks his hand, sending the cube shooting away from him and then brings forth the data from Jane, her stats on the possibility and probability of creating an Einstein-Rosen bridge to Asgard. The science tempts him, a coy mistress. How can he, Tony Stark, genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, Iron Man, Avenger, and all around stunningly awesome guy, resist decoding the mystery behind interstellar travel? If he did, NASA would flip their shit, and Tony cannot resist anything that causes any sort of official agency to flip their shit.

And besides, Doom. Loki may have thrown the Asgardian version of temper tantrum because Natasha lied to him, storming away from the team in a dramatic huff, but Doom would return regardless. Tony saw the crazy in his eyes in Switzerland, the man choosing to burn in a fire so that he could kill Loki. He will not relent. 

So Tony studies. The distance between Earth and Asgard is smaller than the distance that Loki attempted to traverse with his portal in May. Still. Tony flicks his hand once more and draws toward him the study of the robot that he stole from Doom. Its power source resembles his Arc Reactor, expected given Vanko’s contributions to his father’s research, but it’s nowhere near as powerful as Tony’s, so.

“If he had a thousand,” Tony says, “he could get to Asgard.”

“A thousand what?” Pepper says from the couch, her head bent toward some important Stark Industries document that Tony knows he should pay attention to, but this is so much more interesting. If Doom weren’t a crazy, torturing, cape-wearing psychopath, Tony would want to be his best friend, the man’s knowledge of mechanics and physics impressively impressive. 

“Robots,” he says. “Assuming, of course, he’s not trying to open a Loki-sized portal. If he is, he’ll need something bigger, stronger. He’ll need—” 

“Yours,” Pepper says.

“Yep.” 

It takes a moment for Tony to register the tone of her voice, to realize that her statement was not hypothetical, that she was not fulfilling the role of human sounding board usually filled by Bruce or Jarvis. It takes a moment for him to register the fear.

Looking up, he finds her face pale and her eyes wide. She stares beyond him to the terrace. Tony turns and sees Doom rising from his crouch before the glass wall, from where he just landed. He wears his armor, the faceplate smooth and new, a replacement for the one that Clint destroyed in New Mexico. 

Tony turns back to Pepper. She meets his eyes, the fear in them sharp and bright. “Go,” he says. “Get Jane and Darcy. Go to lockdown.”

She nods and runs for the lift, her papers scattering about her. Tony waits until the door slides shut behind her before he presses the call button on his wrist for the Mark VIII. “Jarvis?” he says, turning back to the terrace. Doom extends a hand and fires at the glass wall, but the glass only cracks; it does not break.

“I have alerted Dr. Banner and Mr. Barton. Director Fury is here and on his way as well.”

“Thanks.”

Doom fires again and the glass explodes. Tony drops to the ground as shards fly past him. He hears the wall behind the lift begin to open, the Mark VIII preparing for launch. Doom strides into the room, saying something, some sort of spell, and the image of Loki crouching in the midst of a giant fireball flashes into Tony’s mind. He scrambles back across the floor away from Doom, wincing as fragments from the wall cut his hands and knees. 

Doom continues to mutter as the wall unfolds and the Mark VIII shoots out. Tony rises as the suit begins to adhere to him, starting with his legs. Then he looks at Doom and shakes his head. “You would think after what we did to Loki back in May, assholes like you would learn _not_ to come after us. And you’re supposed to be smart.”

Doom finishes the spell, but the room does not explode into fire. Instead he says, “As are you, Mr. Stark. A pity the rumors were wrong.”

The confidence in his voice causes Tony to turn. He finds the top half of the Mark VIII hovering in midair, frozen in place by Doom, and Tony has one brief moment to panic before Doom fires, the blast hitting him in the back and propelling him across the room. Tony crashes through the rest of the suit, scattering the pieces before slamming into the far wall. 

The impact stuns him; it sends the room swirling in a slow circle around him and knocks the air from his lungs. Tony tries to stand, but Doom is on him before he can do so, his left hand on Tony’s throat, pinning him to the floor.

“I regret that these are the conditions of our first meeting, Mr. Stark,” he says, but Tony hears no regret in his voice, just rage, the anger simmering beneath his veneer of civility. “Unfortunately,” he continues, “Loki destroyed my reactors when he was last in Latveria, so now I must use yours if I am to travel to Asgard to destroy it.” 

And before Tony can protest, before he can do anything, Doom lays his hand on Tony’s chest and begins to drain the power from his Reactor.

*

Steve strides down the Rainbow Bridge, almost jogging to keep up with Thor, who walks ahead of him, Mjolnir by his side. He still does not understand, not entirely, the explanation that Thor provided for him as he pulled Steve from the palace, from his search for Sif, the clarity of his thoughts hindered by his urgency. All Steve knows is that they must leave Asgard and they must leave now, without Sif and without Natasha.

“Where is Natasha?” he asks again.

Thor does not stop. “With my mother. She will follow.”

“But—”

Thor stops, so suddenly that Steve nearly walks past him. The last time that Steve had seen him so anxious was when Loki had teleported away with Doom. Steve knows that this current anxiety concerns Loki again, somehow. “Trust me, Captain,” Thor says, the appeal in his eyes clear and direct. “I beg of you. I will explain, but it must be later. We cannot delay our departure.”

“Because Loki is in trouble.”

“Yes,” Thor says, and Steve knows that it’s not a lie, but he knows that it’s not the complete truth either. He suspects the complete truth involves whatever Natasha does now with Frigga because, if Loki were in trouble, Natasha would come, no matter the state of their relationship. But he will trust Thor and hope for the truth later. After another moment, Steve nods and Thor leads them once more down the Rainbow Bridge to the Bifrost. 

Steve glances behind him, taking in the strange buildings and the eerie calm to the realm. He understands a bit more Sif’s excitement about New York, the boroughs indeed humming with life, raw and loud and coarse. Steve found some of that within the Warriors Three, their feast last night definitely loud and often raw, the humor from Volstagg especially brash. He wishes that he had had a moment alone with Sif. Perhaps she could have shown him the aspects of Asgard that she loves. Maybe, someday, she still could. 

Steve follows Thor into the Bifrost. Heimdall turns from his watch, his long sword in his hands. “The Queen has informed me,” he says to Thor. “The same man who fired upon Ms. Romanov now sets upon Loki.”

Thor nods and positions himself for the journey. Steve stops beside him and watches as Heimdall prepares to activate the Bifrost, but then something like lightning explodes in the chamber and Steve drops. From the corner of his eye, he sees Thor turn and Heimdall begin to kneel. Moving into a crouch, Steve looks behind them to find Odin standing in the entrance, his eye fixed on Thor, a golden spear in one hand.

Thor moves to stand in front of Steve. “This does not concern the Captain,” he says to Odin, his left hand raised as though to guard Steve from Odin. “Please allow him to leave Asgard. Loki—”

“Continues to place his own desires before the good of Asgard,” Odin says, anger clear on his face. “And now, it seems, do you.”

Steve sees Thor narrow his eyes. Rising from his crouch, he looks from Thor to Odin and back again. “What is going on?” he asks Thor.

Thor does not look at him. “A family concern, Captain.”

“What—?” 

Thor steps past him, his gaze still on Odin. “You must allow the Captain to travel to Midgard. He did not know what we planned, and he can stop Loki from killing this man who pursues him now. If he does not, Loki may suffer dire consequences.”

Odin holds his gaze. “As do we all for our actions.” 

Thor tilts his head to the side. “Even you?” he asks. “What have you suffered for your wrongs?”

Anger colors Odin’s face. “I suffer the fact that my wife and son conspire against me to steal the Casket from my vault.”

Thor gazes calmly back at Odin. “The Casket does not belong to you,” he says. “For good or for ill, it belongs to Loki.” 

Odin clenches his jaw. “So you trust his ability to wield the Casket wisely, knowing its power?”

Thor takes a step toward his father. “What has doubting Loki engendered? Natasha was correct. If we continue to mistrust him, we only justify in his mind his destructive actions. Yet, if we change, if we place the responsibility for his actions onto Loki himself, then he may change as well.” 

Odin opens his mouth to reply, but Thor steps forward again and says, “We may discuss this in depth further, but you must allow the Captain to leave Asgard first. Loki respects him. He may listen to him.”

Odin does not respond. In the silence that descends upon the room, Steve hears Heimdall move forward. He steps into view, the sword still gripped in his hands. “My king,” he says, waiting for Odin to turn to him. When he does, Heimdall continues. “I observed the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. inform Ms. Romanov that he would pursue Loki should he become aggressive once more. Though this man that follows him intends him harm, I believe the Council seeks any opportunity to break the treaty that he signed.”

Odin studies Heimdall, contemplating his remarks. In the ensuing silence, Steve attempts to ground himself amidst the multitude of revelations, the Red Room pursuing Loki, Natasha and Frigga attempting to steal from Odin’s vault, and now Fury vowing to engage Loki as well. Steve will have to speak to Fury about that one when he returns to New York. Assuming that he does return. He glances at Odin now, who looks at him, and Steve thinks that he should speak, that he should argue for leaving as well, but before he can do so, Odin nods and Heimdall returns to his position. As he lifts his sword, Thor moves past Steve to stand beside Odin, ready to continue the debate about Loki, and it is only when the winds of the Bifrost begin to rise around him that Steve realizes that Thor has placed Mjolnir in his hand. 

*


	32. Day Three, Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the weapons vault, Natasha hesitates, Frigga’s claim about stealing the Casket still reeling in her ears. She had been critical of Frigga before for her lack of action concerning Loki, for her distance, but now she cannot help but wonder about the consequences of this action, of directly contradicting Odin’s command.

In the weapons vault, Natasha hesitates, Frigga’s claim about stealing the Casket still reeling in her ears. She had been critical of Frigga before for her lack of action concerning Loki, for her distance, but now she cannot help but wonder about the consequences of this action, of directly contradicting Odin’s command. 

Of course, the consequences had not stopped Natasha from lying to Loki about Anna or from vowing to steal the Casket from Odin or the information about the Tesseract from Tony and S.H.I.E.L.D. should she fail, so why should they stop her now? 

_So I should thank you for your deception?_

Natasha hesitates, her presence here, she knows, the result of her prior focus on the ends, not the means. But she tried. She tried the right way, the good way. She had asked, but Odin refused. 

_Odin is king and therefore must consider the people of the Nine Realms in his decisions._

_I, however, need only consider my sons._

Perhaps if Steve were here, he could persuade her to be selfless, to see the bigger picture now as she did before with Tony, closing the portal and consigning him, she thought, to death. But Tony had chosen to pilot the missile into the portal while Loki had implored her for candor, for her to tell him what he knew she concealed, and Natasha had refused. She did not relent.

Drawing in a breath, Natasha follows Frigga across the chamber. Along the wall, she sees glimpses of relics in recessed alcoves, a golden glove, a cup bearing flame the color of the sea, a worn stone tablet. Before the lighted wall, the blue box that Loki first showed her in Switzerland comes into view, the box that she knows now to be the Casket of Ancient Winters. Frigga stops before the box and turns back to Natasha.

“You risked death before to find Loki,” she says, “to help him. Will you do the same now?”

Natasha looks from Frigga to the Casket. “Why?”

“I cannot lift the Casket from the pedestal. I lack the magic that Odin possesses to withstand the force within, even for a moment. But you,” she says, raising a hand and brushing cool fingers against Natasha’s cheek, against the Helm of Awe. “You possess the life of a Frost Giant within you. The Casket may recognize you.”

Natasha raises a brow. “May?”

Frigga shrugs. “Loki is unique, a child from Jotunheim raised in Asgardian magic. He has made you so with the Helm. There are no precedents.”

Natasha eyes the Casket. The light pulses cool within. The etchings on the glass remind her of the markings that she saw on Loki in Switzerland, dark slashes and curls against the blue. “And if it doesn’t recognize me?” she asks. “What then?”

Frigga hesitates, but only for a moment. “You will die,” she says simply, but the answer is far from simple. Death always, but never, is. But Natasha has never feared dying, only doing so for the wrong reasons or at the wrong time.

_I love you. And I know you love me._

“And if it does recognize me?” she asks, her voice hushed in the chamber, her eyes locked on the Casket.

“Then I will take you to Midgard.”

Natasha turns to Frigga now. “You? What about—”

“I cannot ask Heimdall to betray his King. This is my choice, Ms. Romanov. I will endure the consequences. I cannot ask another to do so.”

_This is my choice, Clint, whatever happens._

Natasha stares at Frigga a moment, silent, wishing again for time, time to get to know the woman standing before her, knowing that, if she could, if she can, she would like her. “How?” she asks her now.

“The Tesseract, if I am able to acquire it.”

“And if you can’t?”

Frigga hesitates again, the pause longer than a moment this time. “If I can’t, I will teleport us to Midgard.”

Natasha blinks, then she says, “I didn’t know someone could travel between worlds like that.”

Frigga holds her gaze. “You can, though the energy required to travel between the realms is great.”

Silence follows the implication. Frigga does not drop her eyes; she does not look away; and Natasha feels dread begin to swirl in her chest. “How great?” she asks. “Will you die?” 

“I do not know. I am… My energy wanes after so many millennia.” Frigga looks away now, up at the distant ceiling. She is silent a moment, her face pinched in concentration, then she turns back to Natasha. “What say you?” she asks, urgency again in her voice.

Natasha glances at the Casket. She breathes in. Doom, Winter, Thanos, maybe Fury, maybe Odin, too, if she and Frigga survive, if they bring the Casket to Loki, all of them after Natasha and Loki, and Loki still angry with her, still hesitant and hurt, but all of that may not matter because Natasha may die if she touches the Casket and Frigga may die if she teleports them to Earth, and Natasha knows she could say no, Loki may understand if she fails to acquire the Casket, if he knew the risks that she and Frigga will take if she says yes, he may still decide to stay, but if he stayed, could they survive Doom and Winter and the Academy and Thanos lurking in the distance with only his magic and her guns, would Fury and the Avengers help them, would Odin, or has she ripped everyone apart with her choices, with her decision to save Loki no matter the cost?

_Nat, what is going on?_

_Nothing I can’t handle._

And Natasha would laugh were the situation not so dire, and she would feel fear if time were not so short. Frigga stares at her, waiting. Natasha looks again at the Casket, and, after another beat, she nods. Positioning herself in front of the Casket, she feels the Helm shiver, the life within the rune recognizing the life within the Casket as it did for the sword, as it did for Loki. But her heart still pounds as she raises her hands, as the pattern of stone on the glowing wall widens, as the wall begins to open and the renewed Destroyer steps forth. 

*

The message from Jarvis echoes in Clint’s mind: _Doom has arrived. Doom has arrived._ So simple a statement, yet so true, doom befalling the team once more, and the last time Clint was the cause, leading the assault on the Carrier that culminated in Phil’s death, his mind too weak to resist Loki. Now his mind compels him to action, he must help his team, he must save them, but his body resists, Clint still too weak from his previous encounter with Doom to do much more than stand.

_Can you stand in the middle of a giant fireball and not die?_

Gritting his teeth, Clint tries once more to stand, sliding off of the bed to his feet, but his muscles seize, the room spins around him, and he clutches the table before him, knocking his bow and his card from Steve to the floor. 

Closing his eyes, Clint draws in a deep breath. He waits a moment, then prepares to take a step forward, but before he can move, the door to his room opens and he hears Darcy say, “It is such a burden being so right sometimes.”

Clint opens his eyes and immediately wishes that he hadn’t. Sinking back onto the bed, he says, “Aren’t you supposed to be on lockdown?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be on bed rest?” she counters, walking into the room to stand in front of him, her hands on her hips.

Clint stares up at her, his jaw set. “I have to go. They’re my team.”

Darcy stares at him, her eyes narrowed. Clint holds her gaze, but he cannot read the look she gives him. He recalls the look in her eyes the day before as he unleashed his angst upon her, as he told her his convoluted tale of love and death and mind control. She had listened, and it had helped like she said, it had eased some of the pressure within him, but then Clint saw the look in her eyes as she said her goodbye, the pressure from him now in her, her burden his tale, and the relief had faded, his guilt returned, and he remembered why he lived his life at a distance.

He looks up at her now. He will apologize later, he’ll find a smile and the right joke to tell to ease the tension between them, but now he has to go. He cannot fail again. “Darcy—” he says.

“Yeah. I know.” She pauses a moment and quirks a brow. “Save the billionaire, save the world.” Still looking at him, Darcy crouches down to retrieve his bow and card from the floor. She stares at the card, at the ridiculous picture from Steve on the front, and Clint sees a gleam appear in her eyes, the same that he saw when she thrust her arm before him and electrocuted Doom in New Mexico.

Placing the card on the table, she hands him his bow and says, “Wait here. I’ll be back.” 

Before he can speak, she spins on her heels and stalks from the room. Clint looks down at his bow and then shakes his head, turning to the table for his quiver. He slides it on and moves to stand when Darcy returns, pushing a wheelchair before her.

Clint stares at the wheelchair, his mouth falling open as she stops it before him. She applies the brake and then reaches for him, but Clint pulls back, shaking his head. “No.” 

“Yes.”

“Darcy—”

“Dude, you can barely stand. You’ll fall ass over arrows halfway to the elevator. You’re going in the wheelchair or you’re not going at all.”

Clint stares at her, his mouth, he knows, still open in shock. He looks down at the wheelchair and then at her as he says, “I can’t fight Doom in a wheelchair.”

Darcy shrugs. “You fought him in a car. This is a lot easier to maneuver.”

Clint blinks at the logic, at the absurdity of her plan. “Are you serious? You can’t be serious. Are you serious?”

Darcy crosses her arms over her chest and stares at him, no trace of mirth on her face. “You feel guilty,” she says. “You think you’re to blame for what happened to your friend Phil, and you’re determined to make up for it, even if it kills you.” Clint looks away, but Darcy moves, placing herself in his line of sight once more. “And you’re pissed about your partner and Loki. And you’re pissed that Doom got away in New Mexico. And you’re pissed that all you want to do now is kick some ass, but you can’t because you’re only human and not a god or a Hulk and that pisses you off the most because you think that, if you were more, you could’ve stopped Loki from taking control of you, and your friend would be alive and Natasha wouldn’t be with Loki right now. Instead, she’d be with you.” 

Clint glares at her for that, but Darcy doesn’t relent. Instead, she says, “And now you’re pissed at me because you know I’m right. But you know what? I don’t care. I’m here to help you. You saved my life, and you’ve had a legitimately crap year, so if you want to kick some ass, you’ll get your ass into this wheelchair because I may not know super spy kung fu, but I did grow up with two older brothers, so I know how to take a man down, Barton.”

At that, Clint raises a brow. “Barton?” 

A small frown appears on Darcy’s face. “Should I say Agent? I don’t know. I’ve only been in S.H.I.E.L.D. for five hours.”

Confusion replaces the anger so swiftly within Clint that all he can do is blink at Darcy. “You joined S.H.I.E.L.D.?” he asks.

“Yeah. Fury helped me sign the papers this morning. But I’ll tell you about it later when we’re not dead. Now you have to kick some ass, and I have to help you.” She leans down now, bringing her face close to his. The blue of her eyes mesmerize him, ringed by her dark lashes. A moment passes in which she holds his gaze and then she says, “Are you going to let me help you, or are you going to be a stubborn, macho moron like every other man that I know?”

And the smirk appears on Clint’s face before he realizes it, the comment bursting forth before he can stop himself or consider the risks of flirting with the newest agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. “Can’t I do both?” he asks, sliding from the bed into the wheelchair. 

Silence follows his remark, and he knows he has surprised her. But the silence lasts only for a moment and then Darcy gives him a look as she leans over to release the handbrake. “Not the time, man. _So_ not the time.”

Clint nods, chastened, the timing wrong not only for the assault that Doom wages upon them now, but for Natasha and his feelings for her. But someday. Darcy had heard all he had to say, and she hadn’t run. Instead, she stayed and she joined S.H.I.E.L.D. and she sliced through his web of misery and rage with a beautiful, blunt, stubborn, warm, and somewhat absurd clarity that Clint knows he’ll crave again.

“Penthouse or roof?” she asks him now as she begins to wheel him from the room.

“The roof,” he says, his mind turning from thoughts of her to which arrow he should fire at Doom first.

*

The Rainbow Bridge begins to pulse, the Bifrost begins to spin, and Sif begins to run, knowing that Steve and Thor preceded her down the Bridge, the guard at the end having alerted her as she searched for Steve. They could not have left, not for good, the guard had not mentioned Natasha being with them, but perhaps she waited for them in the Bifrost, perhaps she stayed all night on the Bridge after Sif had left to further contemplate her life, her future in Asgard and her feelings for Steve. Perhaps Steve did not think that Sif would want to return with them, interpreting her distance at the feast as detachment toward him and toward Midgard.

_This city, it hums._

_He is unlike any man that I have met._

She slows as she hears raised voices emanating from the still spinning Bifrost. Stopping at the entrance, she peers inside to find Thor and the King in the midst of an argument about Loki. Sif sees Heimdall beyond them, retrieving his sword from the activation podium. She knows that she should retreat, the crisis of a king and his son a private concern, but she must know.

Sif eases inside, but neither Thor nor the King turn her way. Keeping her face averted from them, she walks the periphery to the opposite end, stopping before Heimdall. 

“He is gone,” he says, knowing, as always, the turmoil in her heart. Sif turns away and closes her eyes, but he lays a hand on her arm turns her toward him once more. “But he is not lost,” he says, his voice quiet. “The circumstances align. I will have to open the Bifrost once more.”

Sif peers at Heimdall, hope rising within her, but also dread. “Should I go?” she asks.

He smiles at her, and Sif feels the pull of the past, her youth with Heimdall, the memories that she possesses of their father, grown pale now with time, but the ties still so strong. “Why do you ask that which you already know?” he says to her, his hand warm on her arm.

“Because—” she says, but she cannot continue. With Heimdall, though, she has never needed to.

“You fear the future,” he says.

Sif nods. If she remained in Asgard, her life would persist on as fixed a course as a star through space, yet if she departed, if she chose Midgard, she would abandon all for which she has worked for an enticing possibility, an alluring potential.

_Perhaps tomorrow you would consent to show me more of the city._

_I would like that._

Heimdall regards her. In his eyes, she sees her brother, the distance of the Gatekeeper cast aside momentarily for her. “You should not,” he says. “He cares for you. He understands you, more so than others for whom you have deigned to give your heart.” He glances now at Thor, and Sif feels her face warm with a blush. But before she can chastise Heimdall, he turns from her, his eyes narrowing, once more the Gatekeeper of the realm.

“My king,” he says. 

The argument behind them ceases. Sif draws back as Thor and the King approach, both men still flushed with anger. “What do you see, Heimdall?” the King asks. 

“Is it Loki?” Thor says.

“I have found the man known as Doom. He spoke of the realm.” Glancing at Thor, he says, “He initiates a fight against your team to obtain the means to reach Asgard.”

The King looks at Thor. “You must go,” he says. “You must fulfill your duty to Asgard. You must cast aside your own desires—” But he stops without finishing. Sif sees his face grow pale as he turns from Thor to stare at the palace. Seconds pass and then he says, “No.” 

Thor takes a step toward the King, his brows drawn together. “Father?”

Ignoring Thor, the King turns to Heimdall. “Did she succeed?”

Only years by his side allow Sif to detect the alarm within Heimdall. He retreats to gaze from the end of the Bifrost, searching, searching, but for whom? Natasha? Sif glances at Thor, who stares at the King.

“Father,” he says again. “What has occurred?”

“Your mother,” the King begins. His tone unsettles Sif, so shaken and hollow. “Ms. Romanov acquired the Casket. Frigga has teleported them away.”

Now Thor pales. “She did not… She said that they would use the Tesseract.”

“They could not.” The King pauses. He swallows and then says, “The Destroyer awoke.”

_Sif, you’ve done all you can._

_No. I will die a warrior’s death._

Sif recalls the power of the Destroyer, how easily it defeated her and the Warriors Three on Midgard. She looks at Thor, who says to the King, “Did it follow? Did it follow them?”

The King nods. 

Thor turns away. “Heimdall?”

Heimdall remains silent, searching. Sif starts to pace, never possessing any patience, the need for action rising within her. Thor catches her eye, and she sees the same within him. Another minute passes and then Heimdall says, “They arrived. They are with Loki and the Captain.” 

At that, Sif halts, but Heimdall does not look at her. His gaze on the King, he asks, “Where do you wish to go? To Doom or to Loki and the Queen?”

“To our family,” Thor says, turning toward the King, his face set. 

The King looks at Thor and then at Sif. He opens his mouth to speak, to order her, she knows, to go to Doom, to fight the threat to the realm that she intends to forsake, but before he can do so, Heimdall says, “Sif must accompany Thor. This is her parting wish. You must honor it.”

Thor turns to her, surprise in his eyes. Sif turns away, her face warming once more. “We can speak of it later,” she says, casting a quick glare at Heimdall as she moves to stand by the opening to the Bifrost. “Now we are needed on Midgard.”

*

When Natasha vanishes with Frigga, Loki casts an illusion and then turns around. He spots the man almost immediately. He has dark hair and blue eyes, and he stares at the image of Loki, the one who has returned his gaze to the figurine. The real Loki moves closer to the man. He wears a dark blue coat with a high collar and black pants tucked into military boots. In his stance, Loki sees the bearing of the Captain; in his eyes, the menace of Natasha. Loki clenches his jaw. The man must be Winter. The assassin. 

The man who had shot Natasha.

_And you slept with him?_

_I had to. Anna said I had to learn from somebody._

Natasha had said that she did not love Winter, but she had lied to Loki about Anna so why not about Winter, too? Winter, so different from the others. The one that Natasha chose.

Loki looks at Winter now. Natasha had killed Anna before Loki had had the chance, but now she is on Asgard while Winter is here, his intent to kill Loki clear in the way that he watches, in the way that he follows. Loki narrows his eyes. A moment passes and then the wicked grin blooms across his face. 

_Do you see what I am?_

_I am death._

_All I know is the kill._

Loki turns and sends his projected self out of the Egyptian wing. Winter follows, and Loki ambles behind, his hands in his pockets. As they begin to weave their way to the exit, he begins to ponder how he will kill Winter. Will he allow the man to fight back, or will he take Winter by surprise? Will he break his neck? Will he teleport him into space or freeze him instead? Will he stab him with his spear—

And, unbidden, Loki sees the Carrier and he sees Agent Coulson and he remembers the way that Natasha had spoken of him in India, of his importance to her, his place in her life before Loki had killed him.

His step falters.

_Clint and Phil gave me my chance. And you—_

Loki looks at Winter, but he does not see the distant past, he sees the near. 

He sees Barton.

_You have heart._

_He seemed… different somehow than the others._

_Why not?_ she had asked. _Because you’re going to kill Clint to make me suffer?_

Is this why Loki wants to kill Winter? To make Natasha suffer as Loki had suffered when she lied to him? Loki could, he knows. Natasha cares for Winter as she cares for Barton. He knows this; he saw it when she spoke of him in St. Petersburg.

_Did you love him?_

_Not there. Children suffered there._

Had this been the case for Winter? Had Anna, or someone like her, broken Winter as Anna had broken Natasha, as Loki had tried to break Natasha? Had Winter suffered in the Red Room, too?

_He responded to the serum more admirably than you._

_He never succumbed to sentiment._

Loki remembers the blood on Natasha’s scarf, how pale her face had looked as she stood before him in Latveria, the bullet wound from Winter high in her chest.

_He will come after you. I have made sure of it._

_Let him come._

Loki looks at Winter and renews his step. Together, they climb the stairs to the main wing. As they climb, Loki thinks of Natasha and what strained Frigga so to pull her away. He surmises Odin to be the cause, likely his refusal to give Natasha the Casket. Odin would never part with one of his precious relics; he wouldn’t even part with Loki, manipulating Natasha into pursuing him in Italy. At least Natasha had the presence of mind to bring Thor with her to Asgard; Loki knows that his brother will help her when she moves to steal the Casket, Thor still so vulnerable to sentiment.

_What am I to you? Am I brother? Am I foe?_

But could they have already made their move? Had Loki underestimated Natasha? Had she failed in her quest, or had something else happened to agitate Frigga? Could Doom have finally found his way to the realm? 

No. Loki dismisses the thought. If he had, Natasha and Frigga would have told him. Of this, at least, if nothing else, they would have told him, Loki the reason for Doom’s desire to destroy the realm.

Wouldn’t they? 

_Tell me._

Or would they? What care has he shown for Asgard? He told Thor he had no desire to return. He spoke of the deceit within its walls, within Odin himself. Why would they assume he would care about its safety, especially given his plan to run? And he had planned to run, of this Natasha had been correct. Loki had wanted to run, to run from her, to run from himself and how he felt, but when she came to him in Latveria, he stayed, and when she left for Asgard, he followed, watching her in her apartment as she waited for Thor, in Asgard as she walked from the palace, on the Bridge as she spoke with Sif. And now, now he does not run though she told him to. Now, he stays.

Why? 

Why does he stay? Why did he follow?

_You’re going to lose._

_Am I?_

_It’s in your nature. You lack conviction._

Does he? 

_I never wanted the throne. I only ever wanted to be your equal._

_I remember you tossing me into an abyss, I who was and should be king._

Had Loki ever known what he wanted? Had he ever known anything, anything with certainty?

_You called me a hunter before. Does this mean you’re an animal?_

_I don’t know what I am. I never have._

Had she ever experienced such uncertainty? Even when Anna tried to strip her bare, revealing her name, her family, her life before S.H.I.E.L.D. to be nothing more than lies, Natasha did not falter. Not as Loki had.

_What am I?_

_You’re my son._

_What more than that?_

And what had Loki done in the face of such strength? He had turned on her and did the same. He had tried to break her.

_You believed in Natasha Romanov, and I believed in Loki Odinson, but they are nothing._

_We are nothing._

Why did he do this? Why? Why does he run? Why does he stay? Why does he follow Winter now, the man no more of a threat to Loki than the ant to the proverbial boot because Loki knows that Natasha loves him, he knows, he knows, though he does not know why. 

_What within you elicits such loyalty?_

He does not know, his soul the soul of a monster. 

_The mindless beast, makes play he’s still a man._

Loki runs and he rages and he manipulates and he lies, and always, always, they follow. Always, they stay, Natasha and Thor and Frigga. 

Why do they stay?

What do they see that Loki does not?

_See beyond yourself._

He remembers the words from Heimdall, and he tries to see. He sees Frigga, he sees her as she placed the feather in his hand, and he remembers the look on her face as Thor revealed to her his manipulation, how he had sent the Destroyer to Midgard to kill him. And he sees Thor as he sat in Stark Tower, the anxiety in his eyes as he stared at Loki and his injuries from Doom, and Loki recalls the pain in his brother as he watched him drop the cage from the Carrier, as he tried to kill Thor once more. And he sees Natasha, he sees Natasha in the hotel, Natasha in the Tower, Natasha in the golden light of the Doge’s Palace, and he remembers the look on her face as Loki had called for his spear, as he whispered to her that they were nothing, as he teleported away.

_When you’re there, in nothing, you think there’s no way out. So you run and you lie and you become convinced that you are nothing._

_But there is a way out._

Loki follows Winter from the glass pyramid out of the Louvre.

_Aren’t you tired? Aren’t you tired of running?_

He stops.

_There’s nothing for me here._

_There’s everything for you here. You’re just too afraid to take it._

_I’m not afraid._

He stops.

_Prove it._

In the middle of the courtyard, in the middle of Paris, in the setting of the sun before the Louvre, Loki stops, and he watches Winter as Winter watches the illusion, as he watches the lie, and exhaustion settles upon him, dragging on his bones. He feels tired of it all, tired of the uncertainty, tired of the doubt, tired of the lies and betrayal and redemption and revenge and running and fighting and falling and the endless, ceaseless cycle of him. 

_Choose wisely, Odinson._

Loki drops the illusion. Winter pauses, looks around; finally he turns and sees Loki. Even from a distance, Loki can see that he is unnerved. 

That he understands. He feels the same.

“I know you think I’ll lead you to Natasha,” he says now, taking a step closer to Winter. “So you can kill her, so you can fulfill your mission.” He stops, but Winter does not run; he does not reach for a weapon. He watches Loki and he listens. After a moment, Loki continues, “Do you even know why you’re supposed to kill her?”

Winter clenches his left hand into a fist. “She killed the Madam.”

“Yes,” Loki says. “But do you know why?”

Winter hesitates. He stares at Loki, unsettled. Then he says, “The reason doesn’t concern me.”

_Semantics. Circumstance. Reason._

_It’s easier for you to deny them all, isn’t it?_

Loki raises a brow. “So you’re just a pawn? They say kill, and you do, no questions asked?”

“Yes.”

_Then kill me. If that’s all you are. If you’re just a monster._

But Loki hadn’t killed Natasha, not in Switzerland and not in Latveria. And neither had Winter, though he had the chance, though he took his shot. “Why didn’t you kill her?” he asks Winter now, his eyes narrowed. “You found her in St. Petersburg. You shot her, but not a kill shot. Why?”

Winter does not respond. He does not run either. He simply stares. But he is too late. Loki already knows. The look in his eyes tells him why. “You love her,” he says. 

A beat passes, the silence confirmation, and then Winter asks, “Do you?”

Does he?

Can he?

_This is not a game._

_No. It’s not._

Loki nods. This he knows, though all else persists in doubt. 

They stare at each other across the courtyard, Loki and Winter, the threat of violence still between them, the image of Natasha in both their minds. So slight a thing, yet so strong, and she chooses them, two broken men who kill and lie. 

Why?

“So what—” Winter says, but he cannot finish for the winds of the Bifrost open between them. 

Loki expects Natasha, but instead he sees the Captain, Mjolnir held in one hand. The Captain looks at Loki, he opens his mouth to speak, but then Winter takes a step back and the Captain turns toward him. Even from here, Loki can see the shock break upon his face. 

“Bucky?”

_You see, Loki, I had a friend back then. His name was James, but everybody called him Bucky._

_He was the closest thing to a family that I had._

_But then he died._

As he stares at Winter, Mjolnir falls from the Captain’s hand. Loki looks at him, the pain in his eyes so sharp and clear. Winter stares as well, his own narrowed in confusion, and when Loki turns to him, he sees the same doubt that rages within him, the same uncertainty of self.

_It is curious now that you have formed an alliance with Captain America, Howard Stark’s great science experiment._

_Do you feel a kinship with him, Natalia, being Vanko’s?_

_You did for Winter, though he responded to the serum more admirably than you._

The Captain opens his mouth, but before he can speak, green energy erupts in the courtyard, knocking down all, even Loki. He pushes himself up and sees three figures materialize in the midst of the dissipating light: Frigga, Loki’s sword held in one hand and Natasha in the other; Natasha, grasping the Casket of Ancient Winters, the skin of her hands beginning to turn blue; and the renewed Destroyer, who has seized Natasha by the throat.

*


	33. Day Three, Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki looks at Natasha, her face pale, her breathing shallow. “Help her,” he says as he turns away. He feels for Jotunheim within him, knowing that this will pause the Casket but also amplify the energy from the rune, and he almost laughs as his body begins to burn, as his blood boils and the Casket vibrates in his hands. 
> 
> He always was his own worst enemy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **AN: Warning for violence, strong language, and character death in this chapter.**

As the energy dissipates into the evening sky, Loki sees Frigga fall, he sees the Destroyer tighten its grip on Natasha’s throat, he sees the Captain stare at Winter, at Bucky, tears forming in his eyes, and Loki does not know why they fight for him, not after all that he has done, but now he will fight for them. 

He will not run.

He calls for his spear and armor as the rune on Natasha’s face begins to glow. The Destroyer’s faceplate slides open, fire brewing within, and the patrons in the courtyard of the Louvre begin to scream and run from the chaos. 

His spear in hand, Loki runs, leaps, and then slams into the Destroyer. They tumble across the ground, plowing through an ornate lamppost before skidding to a stop in the middle of the street. As Loki rolls to his feet, he hears the Captain shout for him. Glancing back, he sees the Casket glow in Natasha’s hands, activation imminent. His eyes flit back to the Destroyer then to the Captain’s gaze. A beat passes and then the Captain lifts Mjolnir and begins to run toward them. 

In the distance, he sees that Frigga has not moved.

Teleporting, Loki appears before Natasha. Her arms are blue and her eyes are red and the rune still glows upon her face, the threat now the Casket that she cannot close, the energy from both coursing within her, and Loki knows that Natasha is strong, perhaps the strongest person that he knows, but she is not strong enough for this.

Natasha looks at him. Loki sees tears in her eyes, and the smile that she gives him makes him want to be more, more than he is. “I won,” she says, the words barely audible over the rush of the fight and the roar of the flames behind him.

“You did.” 

“I didn’t know… I didn’t…”

Loki looks at her, beautiful even now, stained with the life of a Frost Giant. How could he not, how could he not fall before her? “I knew,” he says. He places one hand over hers and whispers an incantation to draw the energy from her into him. He feels his hand start to tingle as the green reappears in her eyes, he feels his nerves smolder as the blue swirls along her skin like ink in milk, the color seeping into his own. Only when the last tint fades does he release her and reach for the Casket. Her fingers tremble as he begins to draw the Casket away; when the hold breaks, she drops to her knees, shaken, and Loki takes a step back.

Still, still, Frigga has not moved.

Loki looks at Natasha, her face pale, her breathing shallow. “Help her,” he says as he turns away. He feels for Jotunheim within him, knowing that this will pause the Casket but also amplify the energy from the rune, and he almost laughs as his body begins to burn, as his blood boils and the Casket vibrates in his hands. 

He always was his own worst enemy.

His skin blazing green over blue, Loki teleports back to the Destroyer, one hand smashed but closing in on the Captain, who lies on the ground, the right side of his chest burned, his face scraped raw. 

“Run,” he says to the Captain. 

The Captain scrambles back. Loki faces the Destroyer, and he has just enough time to cast a protective shield around them before the energy within him erupts, coursing from one destroyer into the other. There is one moment of stillness, one moment of silence in which Loki again hears the Bifrost, but he does not look away, he does not drop the shield, he focuses his energy on the Destroyer, and after that moment, after that stillness, the Destroyer explodes. 

*

When the Destroyer explodes, the man in the blue coat runs. Sif sees Steve rise to follow, but he slips back down to the ground, and her breath catches in her throat at the sight of the burns along his chest and the abrasions to his face. She starts toward him as he tries to rise once more, but he falls again as she reaches him. 

“Rest,” she says, placing her hands on his shoulders and easing him down to the ground. Steve shakes his head and pushes against her. The look in his eyes unnerves her, his gaze, usually so calm and kind, now panicked and troubled. “Steve—”

“Bucky,” he says. He twists on the ground, looking off in the direction in which the man had run, climbing the wall of the nearest building. “Bucky… He’s alive… I have to—”

At the name, Sif recalls the visit to the garden on Midgard, the tale that Steve told her of his past. Bucky, his friend, the one he admired, the one who had died, but now, it seems, who lives. Sif peers at the roof where the man had disappeared from view. The claim defies logic, but she will not doubt Steve.

Pushing him back down against the ground, she says, “You must rest to heal. I will find him for you.”

Steve turns back to her. She sees confusion meld with the panic on his face as he says, “He isn’t… I don’t know what’s happened to him.”

“I will—” 

“Be careful,” he says. His right hand darts out to clasp her arm, and she feels breathless at the look in his eyes, the anxiety there not just for his friend, but for Sif, too.

_You fear the future. You shouldn’t._

Sif nods. There is so much she will try to tell him, so much she hopes to learn and to feel, but now she rises and begins to run. At the building, she jumps and grabs a ledge halfway up the wall. Climbing to the roof, she stops and searches. Sif spots the man two buildings ahead of her. Pausing a moment, she draws in a breath and then sprints for the opposite edge, jumping when she reaches the ledge.

Sif lands in a crouch amidst gravel and rocks on the roof of the next building. Looking up, she sees that the man has turned toward her, his eyes wide as she stands. He raises his arm, and Sif sees the weapon in his hand. Darting down, she grabs one of the rocks and whips it toward him. As the man dodges, Sif runs to the edge and leaps across the next gap, landing beside him.

The man turns to her and raises his arm again, but Sif rears back and kicks at his hand, knocking the gun to the ground. The man ducks and tries to sweep her legs out from under her, but Sif does not fall. The man stares up at her, his eyes again wide at her unexpected strength, but then she sees him smirk as he reaches out with his left hand to grab hold of her right ankle.

His grip surprises her, the feel of his hand through her boot not of flesh, but metal. His fingers tighten around her. As he begins to pull, Sif kicks with her left leg, striking him in the chest, but he continues to pull as he falls back, and Sif drops beside him, landing hard on the tile. She tries to yank her leg free, but he does not release her, so she jerks him toward her instead, using the momentum to propel him over and behind her until he lies on his back, Sif perched above him, her hand on his throat. 

“Yield,” she says. “I have no wish to harm you.”

He frowns at that. “Why not?”

Now Sif frowns. “Steve claims you are his friend.” Her hand tightens on his throat. “Was he mistaken?”

The man does not respond. He stares at Sif, his hand still around her ankle. The silence endures for twenty seconds, then forty, before he says, “Who’s Bucky?”

Sif narrows her eyes. “Is this a jest?”

He shakes his head. Sif regards him quietly, discerning the uncertainty in his eyes. “You are,” she says, “or so Steve believes.” 

His fingers convulse around her ankle; he swallows and looks away; and Sif begins to believe. He is young, but she sees the edges of time around his eyes. In his words, she hears the same drag on the vowels as she does with Steve. Sif relaxes her grip on his throat. The man- Bucky- looks at her, and she feels his hold on her ankle loosen.

“Who do you believe you are?” she asks.

“I’m a soldier,” he says, his answer prompt, rehearsed.

“No,” she says. “What is your name?” Again, he does not respond, and, again, he stares at Sif, wary still. She hesitates, but then says, “I am Sif.” 

He quirks a brow at her name, and she sees the echo of a grin on his face. “That’s pretty.”

She peers down at him but detects no mockery in his words. After a moment, she says, “In Midgardian tongues, it means affinity.”

The grin emerges in full. “Affinity, huh? That’s—”

“Bucky?”

Sif turns. Steve leans against the edge of the roof, hunched, exhausted, one hand on the edge holding him steady. She feels the man tense beneath her. Looking back at him, she finds his eyes on Steve, the same panic and confusion in him as Sif saw in Steve before the chase. Rising, she grabs the man by the collar and lifts him to his feet. Then she eases back behind him so he and Steve may talk.

They stare at each other in silence, then Steve forces himself to stand. He takes a step forward, but the man tenses again. Stopping, Steve swallows, glances once at Sif, and then says to the man, “I thought you were dead.”

The man narrows his eyes. “I thought…” he says, the words dim, as though from a dream.

“What?” Steve asks. He chances a step forward, and the look on his face makes Sif ache, the longing for this man to remember him, to be his friend once more. “What did you think?”

“I thought…” the man says again.

“I thought you were dead,” Steve continues, determined, desperate. “You were captured during the war, and everybody thought you were dead. But I found you. You were at a HYDRA base, you were in a room, and I found you and I said, ‘I thought you were dead,’ and you, you said…”

The man stares at Steve, then he closes his eyes, his right hand clenching into a fist. In the silence, Steve looks at Sif, and the pain on his face compels her forward, but then the man opens his eyes, and she stops. He looks at Steve again. “I thought,” he says, then his face pales and he staggers back, nearly bumping into Sif. “I thought, I thought you were smaller.”

Steve nods. He stares at the man, at Bucky, and the smile that Sif loves blooms across his face, the smile like the flicker of light in the palace on Asgard, golden and warm. He takes a step forward. “Bucky—” 

“No. No.” Bucky shakes his head. He closes his eyes again, his left hand trembling by his side. “No. My name… They call me Winter.”

“No. You’re James Buchanan Barnes, but everybody calls you Bucky. We grew up together in Brooklyn. You’re… You’re my family.”

“I’m a soldier.”

“You’re my friend, and I—”

But Sif never hears what Steve says next as Winter spins around and slams his left hand into her chest. The force propels her back, and she plummets off the roof to the ground below. As she falls, she sees Winter jump after her. Sif tries to turn to land on her feet, but she slams onto the roof of a car before she can do so. The metal crunches beneath her, the windows of the car shattering as she tumbles to the ground, the glass slicing into her hands. She hears Steve call her name, and she looks up to see Winter astride a motorcycle before her. 

He meets her gaze. He opens his mouth to speak, but he hesitates, confusion clouding his features once more. As she struggles to her feet, he glances up at the roof before starting the motorcycle and roaring away.

*

“Fifty percent power remaining.”

The report from Jarvis chills Fury. He steps into the elevator and punches the button to the penthouse. In just over a minute, Doom has drained half the power in Tony’s reactor. Fury shifts the gun in his hands, the remodeled ‘Destroyer’ that Phil had used to blast Loki through a wall of the Carrier. He surmises that it will suffice for Doom. If he arrives in time. 

“Update on the others?” he asks.

“Mr. Barton is on floor seventy-six, approximately three minutes and fifty seconds behind you given his limited mobility. Ms. Lewis assists him. Dr. Banner is on floor twenty, approximately two minutes and forty seconds behind you given the distance.”

Fury wonders if the worry he detects really exists within Jarvis or if he merely projects his own concern. Neither would surprise him at this point, the artificiality of Jarvis at times misnomer, the AI more man than machine, simply with circuitry instead of blood.

“S.H.I.E.L.D.?” he asks.

“Ms. Hill has dispatched two aerial units with tactical teams. They will arrive in approximately six minutes and thirty-five seconds.”

Fury nods and primes the gun. ‘The Destroyer’ hums in his hands, the end beginning to glow. No defense system exists in the penthouse to aid Tony, Jarvis claiming that Tony always said that he was the defense system and that he needed no other. Fury sighs at that, wishing that Tony were less Tony. Particularly now.

“Stark?” he asks.

“Forty percent power remaining.”

The elevator climbs to the penthouse. 

“Sir,” Jarvis says. “If I may, I’ve analyzed the intruder. He is weakest on his right side, with two cracked ribs and his right knee at only fifty-seven percent capacity for flexibility. His armor is weakest at the joints. With the capability of your weapon, a direct shot to his solar plexus will reopen the stab wound in his chest and result in an incapacitating loss of blood in approximately seven minutes if left untreated.”

“And a second shot?”

“An eighty-two percent chance of death.”

Fury nods. The elevator opens and he strides toward the final lift, the door open, the lift waiting for him. 

“Thirty percent power remaining.”

Fury steps inside and raises the gun. He clears his mind, feeling, after a moment, calm descend upon him, calm that has accompanied him through a childhood in Hell’s Kitchen, three wars, and two decades spent as a member of S.H.I.E.L.D. He knows that what lies before him lies beyond him, Fury formidable but no match for Doom, not with his armor and robots and prowess with magic, but he also knows that he needs to distract Doom only, not defeat him, the Hulk close behind and more than a match for this enemy.

Fury almost smiles.

He excels at distraction. 

The door to the lift opens, and Fury hears Doom say, “Have your AI inform Ms. Romanova that, when I return from Asgard, she will suffer for murdering Anna.” 

As he speaks, Fury steps from the lift, turns, and sees Doom crouched above Tony, his back to Fury. At the threat to Natasha, he narrows his eyes and fires. 

The blast hits Doom high in the back and propels him off Tony. He slams into the wall, and Fury aims once more, but the thrusters in Doom’s hands fire and he jets backwards. Fury adjusts the gun, but Doom lurches away, placing the lift between them.

Fury eases toward Tony, his gaze darting to either side of the lift. He hears the thrusters fire, but Doom does not appear. 

“He hovers, sir, to draw you out,” Jarvis says over the comm. “I will attempt to distract him.”

Fury glances down at Tony. His face is grey, but his eyes open, and he watches Fury as he slides past, easing behind the lift, past pieces of Tony’s suit that still hover in the air. The lift door opens, and Fury rushes forward, firing at Doom as he darts behind the bar. The bar splinters and liquor bottles explode, then Doom rears up, his hands glowing with purple energy. He fires at Fury, and Fury dives away, back behind the lift. One of the blasts shreds the bottom of his jacket and sears the back of his left thigh. Rolling to a stop, Fury rises, wincing in pain as Jarvis says, “The intruder remains by the bar.”

Fury inches closer to Tony. As he moves, the hovering pieces of the Iron Man suit fall before him, and he hears Doom begin to mutter across the room. 

“Sir,” Jarvis says, “he casts the inferno spell.”

Fury looks at Tony. “Banner?” he asks.

“Approximately one minute away. The spell will unleash in twenty seconds.”

Fury does not hesitate. He rushes back to Tony and reaches for his wrist.

Tony tries to jerk his hand away, but his arm falls limp beside him. He stares up at Fury, his eyes wide. “No…” he says. “Leave…”

Fury shakes his head. “Not going to happen.” He presses the call button, and the pieces of Mark VIII begin to lift and gather around Tony once more.

“Ten seconds,” Jarvis says.

“Why?” Tony asks.

The tremor in his voice strengthens Fury’s resolve. He stands and looks down at Tony. “The world needs heroes,” he says. “It needs Iron Man. The Avengers.”

The last piece of the suit closes around Tony.

“Help Rogers,” he says and then he turns, raises his gun, and strides around the lift.

“Five seconds.”

Doom still stands behind the bar. He finishes the spell, and the air in the room begins to contract. He turns to Fury, and, though he wears a mask, Fury knows that he smiles, he smiles when he says to him, “Die.”

“One second.”

Fury raises a brow.

“You first, motherfucker.” 

The room explodes into fire as Fury pulls the trigger. The shot hits Doom in the gut, and he flies back through the glass wall and off the terrace, plummeting to the ground below. Fury drops the gun and falls to his knees, the heat and the fire from the spell overwhelming him. He feels water sizzle in the air, the sprinkler system struggling against the unnatural flames. Exhaust fans open above him, Jarvis attempting to pull the fire out of the building and away from him. He hears Tony call to him, he hears Tony try to lift himself from the floor only to clatter back down to the ground. 

Fury crawls across the ground to the terrace, his skin, his body, burning. He always knew that he would die in battle, he never expected to live as long as he has, but he needs more time, he needs more time, the team, they need— 

Strong hands lift him. He feels cool air. Glass shatters and he falls, or they fall, then smash back into the building. 

Fury sees the Hulk, then Banner, then concern in his eyes.

He lifts a hand, his jacket burned away, and his skin, oh God, but it doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t hurt anymore.

“Help Stark,” he says, and, as Banner looks at him, he wonders for the first time in forty-five years if God exists and if He will forgive Fury for his all of his—

*

The force emanating from the exploded Destroyer slams Loki back into his shield. He crumples as shards of metal pierce his armor and puncture his skin, as fire erupts around him. Loki tries to stand as he unleashes the Casket, but he slips back down to the ground, blood pooling beneath him, the ice from Jotunheim warring with the fire from Asgard, and he in the middle, always so. 

And, still, still, Frigga has not moved, his mother still on the ground where she fell, the cost for her choice to teleport them here, for him. He sees Natasha stumble toward him, weak from the Bifrost and the Casket and the rune, from the gunshot wound that she suffered as she waited for him in St. Petersburg, and what has he done?

What did he do?

He ran.

Frigga waited for him, but he never came, and Natasha waited for him, but he ran away, and Thor came to him, but he fought his brother, he stabbed him and dropped him from the Carrier.

_Do you see what I am?_

In the tumult, Loki feels something strike his shield. He glances up, sees Thor on the other side. His brother stares down at him, Loki sees him call his name, but he shakes his head, the fire not yet dissipated, the destroyer not yet dead. Thor holds his gaze, the same panic in his eyes as when Loki fell from the Bifrost so long ago, and Loki tries to smile, but he can’t, one lung punctured, blood coursing from a severed vein in his leg, so he looks at Thor, but Thor looks beyond him, he narrows his eyes, and Loki turns to see Mjolnir rise from beside the charred remains of the Destroyer. 

“No…” 

The hammer flies past Loki, smashing the shield and releasing the tempest within into the air. Loki pulls the magic from the shield back in upon him, fueling the energy from the rune that wars with the energy from the Casket that Loki still draws into him. His bones start to shake and his body starts to burn, and he closes his eyes.

_Do you see what I am?_

_I am death._

Thor drops beside him, calling his name, but why, why, when all he does is rage and lie, when all he does is ruin and manipulate, turning on Thor and turning on Natasha and bringing Doom and the Destroyer down upon them all?

_What within you elicits such loyalty?_

He does not know. 

“I ran, too,” she says.

Loki opens his eyes. Natasha kneels before him, her face still pale, shadows beneath her eyes, and Loki wants to be more, he wants to be more for her, but how can he? He tried and he failed and he will again. This he knows. How can he not, his soul the soul of a monster? 

“In Estonia,” she continues. “That’s how Anna was able to capture me. I ran from Clint. I didn’t think—” She pauses and looks at him, licking her lips. Then she says, “You know what I did. I wasn’t a good person. I’m still not, so I didn’t know why he wanted to save me.”

“Natasha—”

She holds his gaze. “It’s not easy, atoning. Everyone will doubt you, but not as much as you’ll doubt yourself. Especially when you make a mistake. When you slip up. When you lie.”

_I have information about the only person she ever cared about._

_So I should thank you for your deception?_

“And you will slip up,” she says. “You will lie. You’ll hurt people, and sometimes you won’t mean to, but sometimes you will.”

_Pay him his compliments when he comes for you. He taught you well._

“But the mistakes don’t mean you shouldn’t try.”

_I’ve got red in my ledger. I’d like to wipe it out._

_Can you? Can you wipe out that much red?_

She reaches out now, but not for him, for the Casket. Her fingers fall onto the top and she closes her eyes, and then Loki feels the Casket close, stilling the rise of energy within him.

“You are worth saving,” she says, the words soft, opening her eyes to look at him. “Even if you don’t believe it, I do.”

Why? Why? The word wells up within him, it swells upon the energy coursing through him and then slips from him, sliding on the blood that gathers on his chest and pools on the ground beside her hands. 

“Why?” 

_Tell me._

Natasha stares down at Loki, she leans toward him, and the world beyond fades from view. “Sometimes,” she says, “you know so much, and I wonder if you can read minds, like Frigga. But then sometimes, sometimes, you see nothing at all. Like now. I didn’t— I never thought—” She stops and shakes her head, looking away. When she turns back to him, Loki sees tears in her eyes. “You heard her,” she says. “I wasn’t made for love. But I do. I feel, and I wouldn’t, not like this, if it weren’t for you.”

_You came to me in July, and you changed my life. So… quickly. So completely._

“You feel,” she says. “You feel so much, and you wouldn’t if you were just a monster. You keep trying to be, you keep saying you are, but you’re not. It would be easier if you were, if all of the bad things that you’ve done happened because you’re an animal. It would be easier for me, too, if I could just blame the Academy for all that I’ve done. But I can’t,” she says, “and neither can you.”

_All actions are self-defense._

_No. Some of them were games._

“We’ve done what we’ve done,” she says. “We’ve lied. We’ve killed. But that doesn’t mean that’s all we are. We can be more. You can be more. I saw it.” Natasha stares at him, the intensity of her gaze stilling the breath within him. “You came to me that first night, and you asked me how to stop being who you were. And it wasn’t an act, it wasn’t a lie, you weren’t manipulating me. You just wanted to know. You hated who you had become, and you wanted to change.”

_Someone gave me a chance, and I made a choice._

_We choose who we are, what we become._

“You have changed,” she says. “With me and Thor. With Steve. You just haven’t with yourself.”

_You hate yourself._

Natasha stares down at him, green energy flaring over his blue skin, in his red eyes. She shakes her head. “You shouldn’t have grown up the way that you did. Neither should I. But we did. We can’t change that. But we don’t have to be that anymore either. You don’t have to be Loki Odinson and I don’t have to be Natalia Romanova. We can be—”

“Loki and Natasha,” he says, and she nods.

_We could go to Paris and just sit, just sit in a café and drink wine and we don’t have to think about Doom or S.H.I.E.L.D. or spying._

_We could just… we could just be._

_We could just be Loki and Natasha._

The perfection of the scene still makes him ache, and he wants it, he wants this, he wants to be Loki and for her to be Natasha, but he sees the flaw, the spot that mars, the energy within him from the Casket and the Destroyer too much. He feels his body start to burn, his heart seize from the strain. He looks at Thor, still beside him, and then at Natasha, still fighting for him, and he tries to smile, but he can’t, it’s too— 

“It’s too late,” he says. 

_It’s too late to stop it._

Loki closes his eyes. In the past, he often thought of death, first in the Void, then in his cell on Asgard. He knows what lies before him for all that he has done; he knows his soul will rest in Hel, not Valhalla. But he deserves no less. 

“No, Loki.”

_I could have done it, Father. For you._

Loki feels the energy halt within him. He opens his eyes. Odin stands before him, pale and weak. Beyond him, Loki sees Frigga rise, her step shaky at first, but alive, alive. He looks back at Odin, who lifts his right hand.

Loki shakes his head. He tries to raise a shield, but even in his weakened state, Odin disperses it with ease. He tries to teleport away, but he can’t focus. He feels Odin fix him to the ground and he says, “Don’t.” 

Odin shakes his head, wonder in his voice and sorrow in his eyes. “Even now, at the last,” he says, “you still quarrel with me.”

“This is my—”

“Your actions led to this, but mine led to yours, so let me lay claim to my fault.”

Thor stares at Odin, his eyes wide. “Father…”

Odin looks at him. He is silent for a moment, and then he says, “Asgard is under your protection now. Yet I do not fear for its future. You have shown yourself to be a wise and compassionate man, more than I ever dared hope. I know the realm will be safe.” Odin turns back to Loki, and Loki can’t look, he can’t, but he can’t look away. “There is good in you,” Odin says to him, his voice quiet. “This, I knew, when I first found you in the temple. Do not… Do not let your hatred of me cloud this within you any longer.”

“I—”

“You are Loki, of Asgard. You are my son, and someday, someday I will see you in Valhalla.”

Odin holds his gaze a moment longer and then he reaches out and begins to draw the energy within Loki into him. Loki feels his body start to cool. His lacerations heal, his breath returns as his lung mends. The storm within him quiets, and Loki cannot, he cannot look away. He feels Thor grip his hand as Odin lowers his head, his skin beginning to glow as the energy assaults him from within. 

Odin staggers back, his fingertips starting to burn, the ash drifting into the wind, but then he straightens, resolute. Raising his head, he looks at Natasha. She rises from her position beside Loki, and they stare at each other, silent. “Thank you, Ms. Romanov, for helping my son find his way.”

Natasha nods. Odin looks once more at Loki and Thor, then he turns and finds Frigga. As they regard one another, a goodbye too inadequate for millennia together, the body of Odin Allfather begins to rupture, the energy within pouring forth, burning, burning, burning his body to ash. He looks up at the stars beginning to shine in the night sky, and Loki may not be able to stop him, he may not be able to save him, but he can do this. He closes his eyes and pictures the view from the end of the world in Asgard, the deep ebony of space, the graceful curve of the distant worlds, the stars as they flare and beam golden light upon the realm, and he projects the image for his father to see. He sees Odin smile as he gazes upon the vista, then the energy takes hold and his body disperses, disappearing amongst the stars.

*


	34. In Memoriam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You got enough for two?” Steve asks.
> 
> Tony tilts his head to the side, and Steve prepares himself for the onslaught. “Do Boy Scouts drink?” Tony asks. “I thought they chugged milk and hugged kittens and smiled.”

The Atlantic gleams from the sunlight shining bright on the waves; the water ripples in the gentle breeze. Maria hears the flags flutter and snap behind her, she hears the murmur of the crowd that has gathered on the Carrier for the memorial, but she can’t turn, not yet. She can’t say goodbye.

Closing her eyes, she remembers the simple service that they had for Phil, only she and Fury, Clint and Natasha, Tony and Pepper and Steve, along with a few members of Phil’s family. Ten people to honor Phil; two hundred for Fury. Maria knows that Fury would have wanted a simple service as well, or no service at all, just a quiet burial with her and the team and his family, but the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. cannot go gently into that battle-scarred night, not when the President demands a tribute. So she is here, eulogy in hand, the one written the day that Fury assumed control of S.H.I.E.L.D. 

She is here to pay tribute to the bravest man she’s ever known.

Maria swallows and breathes in. She feels a warm hand on her arm and opens her eyes to find Steve standing beside her. He wears his dress uniform, the deepest of the wounds on his face still raw from the Destroyer. Maria knows that the Council prefer him to be the next leader of S.H.I.E.L.D., but she also knows that he declined, stating that if the next Director were not Maria, Steve would never work with the organization again. She knows that Clint and Natasha and the rest of the Avengers vowed the same.

She does not know if she is grateful for their support or angry for her need of it.

“Is it time?” she asks.

Steve nods.

Maria looks back out over the waves. She hates the eulogy; she hates the dispassionate summary of one man’s existence, whittling a person down to notable milestones and sanitized anecdotes. She hates that she can’t talk about the times that she wanted to strangle Fury for his obstinacy, for sometimes making what he so eloquently called ‘stupid-ass decisions.’ She hates that she can’t mention his love of thin-crust pizza or how he taught himself to play the piano so that he could properly understand the rhythms of Thelonious Monk or how exactly he lost his eye. But she knows that she can save those stories for later, for once the politicians and their lackeys leave, once the Carrier is hers to command and only she and S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers remain.

So for now, Maria breathes in again, smoothes a hand over her uniform, then turns and walks to the podium to pay tribute to Nicholas Joseph Fury, the late Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.

Her friend.

*

The 21-gun salute to Fury echoes inside the Carrier. Thor lays his hand on the wall beside his mother’s bed and feels the reverberations of the reports in his palm. A part of him wishes to honor Fury alongside the other Avengers, but he has his own grief to which he must attend, the time when he can properly pay tribute to his father still a few days away.

Frigga stirs on the bed. She opens her eyes as Thor removes his hand from the wall, and they regard one another in silence. Then Frigga reaches out and clasps his hand. Thor wishes Loki were there with them, but his brother has been avoiding them both since he teleported them back to Stark Tower two days before. 

“He will come to you when he is ready,” Frigga says, knowing, as always, what troubles him. 

“He should not be alone.” 

“Perhaps not, but this is his desire.” She looks at Thor another moment and then struggles to sit, still weak from her death and renewal. Thor releases her hand and helps her to rise, easing her head back against a pillow. He sees streaks of white in her rich auburn hair; he does not know if her teleportation to Midgard or her revival at the hands of Odin is the cause of the change, but he fears the change to be permanent, a sign of further damage that he cannot see. She leans forward and clasps his hand once more. “He is here, Thor. He did not flee. He knows you care, but he feels your love a burden he does not deserve. So—”

“So I must wait,” he finishes for her, trying, yet failing, to restrain his sigh.

A small smile appears on her face. Patience, he knows, had never been one of his virtues. “Yes,” she says, “you must wait. But perhaps not for much longer.”

“Why?”

“Natasha intends to go to him once the service has concluded.”

Thor frowns at that. “Is this wise? You—”

“She is not you,” she says. “He waits for her.” Frigga pauses then, arching a brow at Thor. “As does one for you, I believe.”

Thor shifts in the chair, looking away. In the weeks since his return to Earth, he had only spoken with Jane for half an hour, prior to his journey to Asgard with Natasha, the Captain, and Sif. Since their return to the Tower, he could not draw himself away from his watch over Frigga, his concern for Loki, or his own meditations about Odin. Thor knows that Jane traveled with them on the Carrier, the Captain desiring for them all to remain together, but how can he speak with her now, in the midst of this grief and uncertainty, when he will soon be king?

“So a king may not know love?” Frigga asks him quietly. 

Thor looks at his mother and sighs. “You know that is not what I intended. A king may know love. You and Father… Your love spanned centuries, but the circumstance is not the same for Jane and I.”

“Why not?” Frigga asks. “Because she is mortal?”

“Yes,” Thor says, irritation flaring within him. He stands and turns away, seeking cessation of her questions and concern for him. “She is mortal and she lives on Midgard and I must become king when our land is threatened and conflict looms.” He shakes his head as he looks back at her. “How can I think of love now when you—?”

“Do not use me as an excuse,” Frigga says, an edge to her voice now. “I am healing. I do not require your constant observation. If I cannot convince you of this fact, I am certain Natasha or Sif will consent to sit with me so that you may converse with Jane. Or perhaps Loki will. Or the Captain.”

“But Father…” Thor says, trailing off, unable to finish, unable to voice the reality of their loss. He feels his hands begin to shake, and he clenches them into fists as he turns from Frigga once more. He always believed that Odin would be there to guide him in his reign, that Loki would advise him as he had in days of old. But, now, he is alone. There is Frigga, he knows. And the Warriors. Perhaps Loki, if he consents to return to Asgard, but Thor knows that he will not: he will remain on Midgard. And Sif… now she desires to leave the realm as well. Thor knows that he cannot begrudge her this; she is not beholden to him, and of all the men for her to set her heart upon, she could not have chosen better than the Captain. But still, he aches for the loss, for the loss of her and the team, for Loki and Odin, for the future that could have been. 

He hears Frigga move behind him. “Why do you believe that they will be lost to you when you become king?” she asks. “Odin may not have traveled between realms unless necessity required him, but this does not mean that you may not. In truth,” she says, “I believe we should open the borders of Asgard more. Perhaps if we had…”

She stops. Thor looks back at her and finds that Frigga has turned away from him, her eyes on the gray wall of the Carrier, but her thoughts far beyond this moment, fixed instead on the past. Thor does not need her skill at discernment to understand her thoughts, her contemplations mirroring his own in the wake of Loki’s fall and its destructive consequences with the Chitauri on Midgard. Perhaps if they had been more open, perhaps if they had tried to change over the centuries as Natasha stated, perhaps if they had been more open, honest, perhaps, perhaps…

Thor moves back to the chair beside the bed and sits, clasping Frigga’s hand. She returns the embrace, tears in her eyes, as he says, “Do you think he will ever want to return to Asgard?”

His mother is quiet, so long that Thor thinks she will not respond, but then she says, “I do not know. Before, I believed that he and Odin might have mended their relationship. With time. But now I do not know.”

At that, she closes her eyes, her hand tightening its hold on his. As he watches her, Thor vows to do as she suggests. He will speak with Jane. He will work on establishing greater ties between Midgard and Asgard. But these will come later. For now, he will sit. He will not leave her, not now. 

He will not leave his mother alone.

*

The sea churns below Steve as he stands at the end of the deck. The dignitaries have left, the President, the Council members that deigned to honor Fury with their presence at the service. Only S.H.I.E.L.D. remains, S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers, waiting a day to honor their friend and their leader before setting out after the man who murdered him.

Steve closes his eyes. He feels the soft sway of the ocean waves as they rock the ship. He hears voices behind him, the crew clearing away the chairs and flags, the plants and podium. He knows some of the whispers concern him, but whether they speak of his inability to save Fury or his refusal to replace him, Steve does not know. He should be used to the commentary by now, both from the propaganda before during the war and the recent media coverage of the Avengers, but this attention chafes, this glare of the spotlight falling bright and hot on his failures.

_A hero? Like you? You're a laboratory experiment, Rogers._

_Everything special about you came out of a bottle._

Steve draws in a breath. His thoughts drift. He sees Bucky fall, first far below into the snow and then to the street after Sif, his friend lost, so lost. He sees Frigga pale and weak, Sif bleeding, shaken. He sees Loki look up at him as he returned to the square, his gaze shuttered and hollow. He sees the charred hull of the penthouse, Tony unconscious and barely alive after the attack from Doom; he sees Clint mute as he stares down at Fury, covered by the blanket that had been draped over him by Bruce.

Steve had tried to help them, he tried to save them, all of them, Bucky, Erskine and Phil, Fury and Odin, but he failed. Always he fails.

_The serum amplifies everything that is inside, so good becomes great; bad becomes worse._

_This is why you were chosen._

Steve opens his eyes. He stares down at the sea.

_Thor told you about me? What else did he say?_

_That you were the most honorable man that he knew, one worthy of Mjolnir._

He does not deserve their praise, not until he succeeds.

Not until he brings his family back together.

Steve cannot pursue Bucky now, not until his team is safe, not until the conflict with Doom is resolved, the man having teleported away after Fury shot him through the window, so, turning from the edge of the deck, he walks back inside the Carrier and begins his search.

He finds Maria and Clint and Bruce and Darcy and Jane first, sitting in a common room on the eighth deck, drinking, Darcy and Jane doing their best to lift spirits by telling of how Darcy first came to work for Jane. He stands for a moment by the door, leaving when he sees Clint smile at Darcy as she reenacts the first time that she coerced Jane into going drinking with her.

He passes by the medical wing next. Thor sits in a chair beside Frigga, as he has been the past few days. Tomorrow, Steve will talk with him, he will visit with Frigga, he will express his gratitude for her hospitality on Asgard and his sorrow for her loss, he will work on improving the ties that have begun to form between them, Asgard to Earth, Thor to Jane, Loki to Natasha, he to Sif, but, for now, he continues on, still more to find. 

Steve knows better than to search for Loki or Natasha, those two experts at avoiding detection if they desired, and he knows they wish for solitude now, both trying to find their way back to each other after Russia and Asgard and Paris. Besides, he knows that Natasha will come to him when she’s ready; she’ll tell him about Bucky, about Winter and the Red Room. By that time, Steve hopes, Loki will have ended his isolation; if not, Steve will find him; he will not allow him to be lost. 

Pressing on, he finds Sif in a gym on the fifth deck. Steve remembers her presence beside him as he lay in a bed in medical, in and out of consciousness as his body struggled to heal. Her stillness had soothed him, the hand on his arm had surprised him, the touch she bestowed tentative and gentle and warm. Steve watches her now, desiring to go to her, to talk with her, to kiss her, perhaps, as he’s wanted to since he ran to the edge of the roof in Paris, panic seizing his throat as he looked over and watched her climb to her feet amid broken glass. He wants to go to her, and he will, but there is still one more to find. 

No matter how hard he tried, Steve could not convince Pepper to come with them on the Carrier. She had stayed behind to oversee repairs and other modifications to the Tower, trying to return her home, Tony’s home, the team’s home really, Steve and Bruce and Loki all living there now, trying to return all to normalcy. He knows that she called Tony before the service, Steve seeing him stiff beside his chair, the mirrored lenses of his sunglasses reflecting the light and hiding his eyes. When the service ended, Tony had vanished before Steve could talk to him.

Steve shakes his head now. As if he could run.

He finds Tony in one of the storage units, propped against a stack of Phase 2 cases, staring at the storage cube containing the burnt and blackened Mark VIII. A bottle of scotch sits beside him, half-full. He still wears his suit, the jacket and tie removed and tossed to the middle of the floor, his shirt untucked and the top buttons open. Tony looks at Steve as he approaches, the mirrored sunglasses still on, the corners of his mouth pinched.

“You got enough for two?” Steve asks.

Tony tilts his head to the side, and Steve prepares himself for the onslaught. “Do Boy Scouts drink?” Tony asks. “I thought they chugged milk and hugged kittens and smiled.”

Steve raises a brow. “Well, I do like milk,” he says, dropping down beside Tony, “but I also like scotch, even if some of its more… appealing benefits are lost on me now.”

Tony shakes his head. “Howard really fucked you over, didn’t he?” He pauses and waves a hand. “I mean, you’ve got the muscles and the speed and the square-jawed, Ken thing going on, but to never get drunk again?” Tony shakes his head again. His jaw tightens as he says, “If that were me, I would _kill_ myself.” 

Silence follows his pronouncement. Steve hadn’t planned on such a direct approach, but Tony presented him with the opening, so—

“I think there’s been enough death around here lately,” he says, his voice quiet.

Tony looks down. He drags his thumb against the label on the bottle, already torn in one corner from previous worrying. The silence drags on. Then Tony says, “Speaking of, shouldn’t you be off comforting some virginal S.H.I.E.L.D. maiden right about now?”

Steve smirks at that. “That sounds like something you’d be better at than me.”

A small smile appears on Tony’s face, a genuine one that eases some of the tension within Steve. “True,” he says. “I’ve seen how you talk to women. It’s a wonder that She-Ra didn’t run away screaming the first time you opened your mouth.”

Steve raises a brow. “She ra?”

“Oh my God,” Tony moans, “you are so culturally deficient. How do you even function in the world?”

Steve does not miss a beat. “Well,” he says, “I do take my abacus with me wherever I go. That helps.”

Tony is silent a moment and then he begins to laugh. More tension eases within Steve, but then Tony’s glasses slip, and Steve sees a hint of bloodshot eyes behind the lenses. Whether they are from liquor or grief, Steve doesn’t know, but he assumes both. Tony eyes him over the rim of his glasses, his laughter fading; a few seconds slide by and then he holds out the bottle of scotch. Steve grabs the bottle and briefly contemplates drinking the rest to prevent Tony from doing so, but he doesn’t want to rock the delicate détente between them, so he only takes one drink and then returns the bottle.

Silence descends upon them once more. Steve shifts beside Tony and clears his throat; he draws in a breath and looks down at his hands; then he opens his mouth, inhales again, and prepares to speak, but before he can do so, Tony says, “You’re killing me here, Rogers. Literally. I feel brain cells dying at how awkward you are right now. Just spit it out.”

Steve can’t help but smirk at the truth of Tony’s words. “Sorry,” he says. “You’d think I’d be better at this, that I’d know what to say, but I—” He pauses and glances at Tony, who watches him closely. Steve looks away and breathes in again and then says, “Before… before Howard and all this, I’d be in fights nearly every week. Most of them ended the same way.” He shakes his head now, the memories unfurling before him, visions of alleys and dim bars, street corners and dime stores, once on a beach and once in the middle of Macy’s. He finds the images still pristine after all these years, their flavor sharp and bittersweet as he says, “Bucky, he’d jump in and stop it, and I’d hate him when he’d do that. I didn’t want to be saved. Feeling powerless like that… I tried explaining it to him once, but he didn’t understand. He’d never been weak, not like me. He just said I was his friend, and he had to help.”

Steve peers at Tony again, who stares down once more at liquor bottle, his hand clenched on the glass. “I know it’s not the same,” he continues, trying to keep concern and desperation out of his voice, caring not an option between Tony and himself. “What happened between you and Fury is different, but I—” Steve leans toward Tony now, trying to catch his eye. “You shouldn’t sit here thinking that Fury should have let you die, that he shouldn’t have saved you.”

“Why not?” Tony asks. The bitter tinge to his voice makes Steve ache. “Big man in a suit of armor, take that away, what am I?”

_Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist._

But Steve cannot say this. Not now. “You’re someone who would sacrifice himself to save a city if he had to.”

Tony arches a brow. “So I’m a moron?” he says.

“No. You’re a—”

Tony’s hand tightens on the glass. “I swear to God, Rogers, if you say hero, I’ll—”

“What?” Steve asks, arching a brow back at Tony. “You’ll punch me in the face?”

Tony doesn’t say anything. He rolls his eyes instead and lifts the bottle, but Steve reaches out and snatches it from him. Tony scowls and grabs for the bottle, but Steve holds it out of his reach as he says, “I shouldn’t have said that to you, big man in a suit of armor.”

“I don’t—” 

“I was wrong. I’m—” 

He doesn’t finish as Tony pushes up abruptly from the floor. “You know,” he says, beginning to walk away. “I take it back. _Don’t_ spit it out. Or do, just to somebody who gives a damn.” 

Steve watches as Tony stumbles in his efforts to escape. Clamping down on the sigh that rises within him, Steve stands and tries to keep calm, he tries to resist the urge to throw the bottle at Tony’s head or toss him over his shoulder so he can dump him in the nearest shower. Instead, he says, “Because you’re so indifferent. Crying into a bottle of scotch in the middle of a storage unit.”

At that, Tony stops. “I wasn’t crying,” he snaps. “I—”

“It doesn’t matter if you were,” Steve says. He places the bottle on the ground and starts toward Tony. “What matters is that you’re doing it alone, and you don’t have to. We—”

“We? What we, Rogers?” Tony asks, spinning around to face him. “You mean the we that’s been scattered across the world and half the damn galaxy? The we who’s been more focused on emotional bullshit than on—” He stops before he says Doom, before he says the man who killed Fury and hurt Clint and tortured Natasha.

“Yes,” Steve says, the word slow, strained, Tony always quick to provoke frustration within him. “That we. The we who’s here now. We need you with us, not off drowning yourself in a bottle.”

Tony shakes his head and the bitterness returns. “They don’t need me. They have you. You’re the golden boy. You’re the—”

“You’re the one who made us a family,” Steve says. He waits for Tony to look at him, but when he doesn’t, he closes the distance between them and continues. “You gave Bruce a place to stay when he needed it. You did the same for me, for Loki. That’s why Pepper isn’t here now, isn’t it? She’s overseeing renovations to the Tower to give the others a home, too.”

The smirk returns, a sharp, hard slash across Tony’s face. “No,” he says. “She just doesn’t like boats. Or seamen. I said—”

Steve reaches out and grabs Tony’s arm. “Stop it. Stop deflecting. Fury died because he thought your life was worth saving. Don’t dishonor what he did by demeaning yourself.”

“I did _nothing_ ,” Tony says, slapping his hand away, the words a sharp hiss that slice into Steve. “ _Nothing._ I just lay there, and I watched him die. I watched him burn to death. That’s not heroics. That’s not anything.”

“Then do something now,” Steve says, refusing to relent under the weight of the grief before him. “Help me.”

“I— What?” 

“Help me,” Steve says again. “I don’t know what the Council is going to do now that Fury is gone. I don’t know if they’ll break the treaty with Loki or try to come after Bruce. Or me. Or you. What if they decide to give Natasha up for killing Anna?” Tony stares at him, silent, but pulled from his grief for the moment, so Steve presses on, he presses forward. “They wanted me in charge of S.H.I.E.L.D., but I said no, and I don’t know if they’ll listen to me anymore. I don’t—” 

He stops as Tony lowers his head. Blinking once, Steve starts forward and then moves back, unsure of what to do if Tony actually starts crying in front of him. A moment passes and then Steve breathes in and braces himself. He raises one hand, preparing to place it on Tony’s shoulder. He wonders if he should give Tony a few reassuring pats or just leave his hand there, a warm, hopefully comforting, presence. Frozen, his arm suspended in midair, he contemplates, and then Tony says, “That slick motherfucker.” 

Steve blinks at that. “What?”

“That goddamn sly asshole.” 

Steve blinks again and withdraws his arm. “What?” 

Tony shakes his head. “Fury. ‘Help Rogers.’ Jesus Christ.” He starts to laugh now, his shoulders shaking, but a manic tinge to the humor that draws Steve’s brows together. He stares at Tony, unsure if the laughter is an improvement over the rage and the shame, when the laughter abruptly subsides and Tony looks up and sighs. He removes his sunglasses and rubs his free hand across his face, then he looks at Steve, his gaze impassive. A few seconds pass. Steve shifts again. He waits, hoping. After another moment, Tony says, “Okay, yes, Pepper is renovating the Tower. To give everybody a home or whatever. But it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just money.”

Tony stares at him, daring him to defy the claim, to push for a fight to prove that he cares, but Steve merely nods. Later, he will push. Later, he will question Tony about Fury and his last words, but now, he nods. Tony looks at him another moment and then he stalks past and retrieves his bottle of scotch. Steve waits, but Tony does not return to his place on the floor. Instead, he places his sunglasses in his back pocket and saunters over to the door.

“You coming?” he asks over his shoulder. “I can’t comfort all the S.H.I.E.L.D. virgins by myself.”

At that, Steve sighs, but he follows Tony from the unit. He’ll try to talk to Pepper tonight about the Tower, about how best to help Tony with his grief. Tomorrow, he’ll touch base with Bruce and Jane about their research concerning Doom, he’ll visit with Thor and Frigga, he’ll talk to Clint about Darcy and his recovery, he’ll track down Loki and Natasha, if only to see them with his own eyes. Later, he will find Doom, and then later, Bucky, and then his family will be safe and together and Steve can finally, finally, breathe.

But now, he turns for the stairs, for the gym on the fifth deck.

He turns to find Sif. 

*

Loki sits on the floor of the cage, his back to the door. He wears his armor, his helmet tossed into the center, the horns pointed toward Natasha. She sees the Tesseract spear on the bench, the blue of the crystal the same blue of the Casket, beside which it lies. She sees his sword on the floor by his feet, the dark glass slick gloss in the light. He had teleported them back to Stark Tower, looked at her once, and then vanished, reappearing the next day in the cage. Natasha does not think he’s left since. She does not think he’s eaten in two days. 

She stands before the door and closes her eyes, letting the stillness of the room wash over her. She feels jittery, her body on edge since she absorbed the energy from the Casket, since Anna and the lie, since Asgard and Paris and Winter and Odin and Fury. The sunlight gleamed too bright on the deck during the service; the voices, in their whispers as she walked past, scraped her nerves raw; the looks that followed her settled on her lungs and seized her breath.

Natasha breathes in now, but even here before the cage in the silence deep in the Carrier, the air catches in her throat. She tries to remember the vast expanse of space beneath her and above her as she sat on the Rainbow Bridge, the silence then, the tranquility, but all she feels is the room constricting around her, Fury and Clint and Odin and Loki and Winter and _Just in case_ and _Thank you, Ms. Romanov_ and _It’s too late_ , the metal of the door cold beneath her hands. 

She hears Loki approach, his steps slow on the walkway. He stops, and she opens her eyes. He stands before her, no longer in his armor, wearing again a simple black shirt and a pair of grey pants, but she sees him in Paris as the Destroyer explodes, as he falls to the ground, blood pooling beneath him, as he tries to die. Natasha closes her eyes and tries to breathe in, but she can’t. She chokes on something, grief, panic, she does not know. She drags her fingertips against the door, she clenches her hands into fists, but still she starts to shake. 

_It’s too late._

The Academy and Winter and Doom and the Destroyer and Odin and Fury and Frigga and Thanos and the Casket and Clint and Steve and the spear and Asgard and Paris and Russia and the Tower and torture and lies and revenge and death and grief and hate and remembrance and the past, and Natasha can’t, she can’t, she can’t breathe. 

_It’s too late to stop it._

Loki comes closer. Natasha hears the hum of the Carrier, she sees his blood slide onto the ground beneath her hands, she feels the bullet from Winter strike her high in the chest. Then she feels his fingertips on her arm, and they are cool and tentative as they draw her away from the door.

_You saved me_ , he had said.

_In every way._

Loki pulls her toward him, and hesitant, unfamiliar with such solace, he wraps an arm around her shoulders. Natasha digs her fingers into his shirt, pulling him closer until she sees nothing but the black of his shirt, until she hears nothing but the sound of his heartbeat in his chest. The steady pulse eases the strain in her throat. She slides her other arm around his waist, and, after a moment, she feels him relax against her, she feels him release a slow breath, slow but steady, and here, here with her.

There is much to say. This she knows. She lied and he manipulated and Winter came and Odin died and Doom lurks, coming for Asgard and coming for her, but for now, they stand, silent and still, and for a moment, after all, after everything, they finally know peace.

*


	35. My Heart, the Cinemascope Screen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And that shouldn’t be hot, that smug arrogance, him knowing why she won’t come over and delighting in it, but it is. Narrowing her eyes, she takes a step toward him and says, “You’re hot, okay? Are you happy now? You fought off a psychopath with a bow and arrow and you would have crawled on your hands and knees to help your team. That’s hot. But…” She shakes her head and sighs, looking away before meeting his gaze once more.
> 
> Clint stares at her, the smirk beginning to fade. “But?” he says, and Darcy knows that he knows. She knows he knows what she will say next. She gives him points for letting her say it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is a modified lyric from Fiona Apple's "Hot Knife."

The funeral has ended, but the grieving, Jane knows, has only begun. Through the window to the lab, she watches the members of S.H.I.E.L.D. move past, their faces resolute, strained, shaken and hollow. She heard the guns in the salute, she heard the planes and helicopters depart with the dignitaries, but still she remains in the lab, hiding, some would say, some being the tiny voice in the back of her mind that sounds alarmingly like her mother. Jane likes to think that she’s working instead of hiding, but in either case, it’s the least she can do given the circumstances. She’s not a member of S.H.I.E.L.D, she’s not an Avenger, she’s not from Asgard; she cannot share in their grief for Fury and Odin, knowing neither, but neither can she sit still, not when she feels that at least one of them has died because of her.

_You’re both in danger._

_Danger? From whom?_

_From Doom._

Doom came for her in New Mexico, for her knowledge about how to travel between worlds. If she had not been so absorbed in her work, if she had just _looked_ at the man and recognized the danger he posed, then perhaps Clint would have been better prepared to confront him, perhaps Doom would not have stolen her research, perhaps he would not have decoded its secrets and then come to the Tower for the energy needed to travel to between worlds. 

Perhaps Fury would not have died trying to stop him.

Jane shakes her head. Logically, she knows she is not responsible for Fury’s death. Logically, she knows that Doom is to blame. But logic has no place in emotions, especially guilt, and Jane excels at guilt, having perfected the art at a young age.

“Thank you, mother,” she mutters, shaking her head again as she returns her attention to the data before her.

“Thank her for what?”

At the sound of his voice, Jane closes her eyes. She has dreamt about that voice more times than she can count, the deep rumble that reverberates in her chest, the formality of the words at odds with the gruff tone. When she arrived in New York after Clint’s rescue and saw Thor again for the first time in a year, Jane had discovered that she had perfectly remembered the sound of his voice. That aspect of him she could not over-dream.

They had only spoken for a half-hour then, Thor leaving thereafter to save his brother. Since his return a few days ago at the top of Stark Tower, in the aftermath of Doom’s attack and Odin’s sacrifice, he had been focused on his mother’s recovery, his brother’s solitude, and his own grief for Odin, and Jane had kept her distance, remembering her own need for solitude after the death of her father three years ago.

But now.

Now she turns and opens her eyes and he is there, looking at her, his blue eyes warm. Jane cannot remember if they were always so blue or if she had downplayed their color, trying not to fall in love with the man who had fallen from the sky.

Thor stares at her, expectant. After a moment, she remembers that he had asked about her remark about her mother. “Nothing,” she says, feeling the smile form on her face, feeling flustered, always so flustered around him. “I was just talking… to myself.” At that, Jane shakes her head, wanting to hide beneath the table, wanting Thor to come closer to her, but then she remembers why he would not, she remembers the deaths and the grief, and she turns away, embarrassed at her joy at seeing him again when he and the others on the ship mourn for their loss. “How is your mother?” she asks, staring down at the tablet she’d been studying at his arrival.

“She recovers,” he says as he enters the room. She watches as he leans toward a screen bearing calculations concerning the Arc Reactor, his movement graceful despite his size. One would expect him to lumber, but he moves instead with finesse, with economy. She watches as he lifts a volume on thermonuclear physics, flipping the book with ease, and the breath catches in her chest. 

“In a few days,” he says, staring down at the book, his gaze pensive, “she will be strong enough to return to Asgard.” 

Jane nods and looks away. “Will you go with her?” she asks before she can stop herself. 

From the corners of her eyes, she sees him nod. “I must,” he says. “I will—” Thor pauses, and the silence draws her gaze back toward him. She cannot read the look in his eyes when he says, “I am to be king.”

Jane nods again, at a loss for what to say. Grief she may understand, but this, the responsibility of an entire world, she cannot even fathom. Thor bows his head, and she wants to go to him, she wants to help him, but she doesn’t know if she should or if she can. He may have promised to return for her when he left Earth before, but that was before and this is now. Now, Thor is king, now he grieves, and Jane doesn’t know what she is to him or what he is to her, if she’s more to him than a pleasant memory. 

The silence endures for another minute before Thor lifts his head and turns toward her. She sees him swallow once before taking a step toward her. “Would you…?” he asks, his voice trailing off. Jane waits. He looks away, then back at her, and she watches as he straightens his shoulders before continuing, “Would you come to Asgard for the coronation? I would like for you to see my home.”

_Your ancestors called it magic, and you call it science. I come from a place where they're one and the same thing._

“You would?” she asks, thrown by the request.

Thor nods again and takes another step toward her. Jane can read the look in his eyes now. She feels her heart begin to pound in her chest, ‘yes’ rattling the cage of rationality in her brain, demanding for her to follow this man that she barely knows across the stars. 

Thor is close enough now to touch, so tall and broad and strong and sure, the best man that she thinks she’ll ever know. He stares down at her, and she looks up at him as he says, “My father… He and my mother spent millennia together, but the time was not enough. I do not desire to dream about you any longer, Jane Foster. I wish to know you and for you to know me. I wish to show you the magic of my realm and for you to instruct me of the science in yours. I care for you, and I want—”

“Yes,” she says, breathless, dizzy from him. “Yes, I’ll come.”

Thor smiles now, and the smile feels like sunlight on her skin. And Jane knows that’s absurd, a smile cannot feel like sunlight, there’s a reason she hated the poetry that she had to read during college, the metaphors and similes irrational to her sober mind, but now it does. His smile feels like sunlight on her skin. 

“Excellent,” he says. They stare at each other for a moment, and then Thor starts to back away. Jane has to restrain herself from following him. “I will leave you to your work. I must find the others to ask for their presence as well. But perhaps, I may return to you this evening, even if simply to watch you work.”

Jane nods, not trusting her ability to speak. She watches as Thor leaves and then she leans back against the table, her head spinning, breathless still from him, from the thought of traveling through an Einstein-Rosen bridge to another world. To his world. To Asgard. Jane laughs at that, no, she giggles, and she wants to stop, giggling something that she has never done and never wanted to do, but she can’t. She giggles with Thor. 

Closing her eyes, Jane breathes in. Later, she can giggle; later, she can laugh and marvel at the presence of him and his regard for her; but now, she must work. She will solve the mystery of how Doom plans to use the energy from the reactor to travel to Asgard; she will not let him burn Thor’s world on top of all the other destruction he has wrought. 

*

Pepper had warned her. People die in this life; Darcy just hadn’t expected it to be so soon. She had met with Fury that morning at Stark Tower, she had joked with him, she had signed the papers to become the latest member of S.H.I.E.L.D., and then, a few hours later, he was gone. 

She doesn’t know if she should grieve, if she has a right to grieve for a man she only knew for a few days. Darcy had attended the service, she had to attend, being a recruit; she stood far in the back, watching the Avengers walk by on their way to the front: Steve stoic, sharp and together in his uniform; Tony on edge, too loud and then too quiet; Bruce trying his best to blend in, to fade away, rumpled and muted in his grief; Natasha still and stone-faced; Clint hollow and raw.

_I have to go. They’re my team._

Darcy remembers the look in his eyes as he stared up at her, shaken from his attempt to stand, but adamant about going, about helping his team, and she wanted to help him, but she wanted to run, too, the pain in Clint so heavy and stark. 

_Are you going to let me help you, or are you going to be a stubborn, macho moron like every other man that I know?_

_Can’t I do both?_

And the smirk, the smug glint in his eyes as he glanced at her and asked that question, Darcy squirms at the memory, the squirm of intense and possibly inappropriate lust.

_Not the time, man. So not the time._

But maybe someday? Darcy sighs at the thought. She—

A knock on the door pulls her from her meditations. She pauses her iPod, Fiona in the midst of wailing about how this is not about love, and then shuffles over to door, opening it to find Clint on the other side. He leans against the frame, still in his uniform, but with the shirt untucked, the top buttons open, revealing the smooth, taut line of his throat. His eyes are bloodshot, maybe from the whiskey, maybe not, but there is no maybe at the intent in his eyes, not as they slide up her body, linger at her hips, her mouth. 

Darcy feels a flash of heat dart through her as his gaze meets hers, but she raises a brow and says, “No,” her throat dry as she looks at him.

Clint sighs and closes his eyes. “I know. I know,” he says. He rubs a hand over his face, his chin already dark with stubble though he must have shaved only hours before for the service. He sighs again and opens his eyes, looking at her. Darcy holds his gaze; a minute passes and then he says, “Can I come in anyway?”

She hesitates, wanting yes, but thinking no. “Will you behave?” she asks.

“Probably not,” he says, a faint smirk on his face. “But I’ve heard from a reliable source that you can take a man down if necessary, so you should be okay.”

Darcy feels the grin tug at the corners of her mouth at the reference to their last conversation, but still she hesitates. She is no savior, and she will not let herself be a distraction either; she knows she deserves more than this. But as she looks at Clint, the frayed edges of his smirk pluck at something inside her, so Darcy opens the door wide and allows him to pass. 

He eases past, his eyes on her as she shuts the door behind him. She watches as he flops down onto her bed and closes his eyes, looking too at home for her to follow. She lingers by the door, watching him instead. The calluses on his hands intrigue her. Darcy wants to know why he fights with a bow instead of a gun, the unexpected choice of weapon fascinating. She wants to know how a man who used to work in a circus is now a badass spy. She wants—

“I’ll be good,” he says, his eyes still closed, the smirk reappearing on his face. “I promise. You don’t have to keep hovering by the door.” 

“ _You_ might be good,” she says, her eyes on his shoulders, his thighs in pants entirely too tight to be regulation.

Clint opens his eyes now and looks at her. Still smirking, he arches a brow and says, “But?”

And that shouldn’t be hot, that smug arrogance, him knowing why she won’t come over and delighting in it, but it is. Narrowing her eyes, she takes a step toward him and says, “You’re hot, okay? Are you happy now? You fought off a psychopath with a bow and arrow and you would have crawled on your hands and knees to help your team. That’s hot. But…” She shakes her head and sighs, looking away before meeting his gaze once more.

Clint stares at her, the smirk beginning to fade. “But?” he says, and Darcy knows that he knows. She knows he knows what she will say next. She gives him points for letting her say it.

“But Loki,” she says. “And Natasha. But mostly Loki. He’s here and he’s not going to leave. I mean, you have seen the way he looks at her, right?”

Clint grits his teeth and turns away. At that, Darcy takes another step forward and smacks him on his knee. 

“Hey!” he says, turning back toward her.

“This,” she says, waving her finger in front of him. “This avoiding. This is why I stay by the door. I’m not going to be your distraction.”

Clint sits now, a small frown on his face. “That’s not why I’m here,” he says. 

Darcy raises a brow. 

“It’s not,” he says. He lifts a hand now and waves a finger at her. “This,” he says. “This confronting. This is why I’m here. You…” He trails off, drags a hand through his hair. A beat passes and then he sighs, and Darcy feels the same _something_ inside her move at the sight of him. “You call me on my bullshit,” he says now, looking back at her. “I mean, Tasha does too, but it’s… it’s _different_ with you.”

Darcy blinks at that. “So you like me because I’m a hard-ass?” she asks, trying, but failing, to keep the incredulity out of her voice.

“That,” he says, leaning back on the bed, the smirk reappearing, that smug, delighted look in his eyes, “and you’re also gorgeous.”

Darcy does not miss a beat. “Damn straight,” she says, tossing her hair back over her shoulders. “But that’s not going to win you any brownie points. You need to talk to him. You need to deal with it, or start to deal with it anyway. Then, maybe, I’ll sit next to you.”

“Just sit?” he asks, grinning at her.

The thought of his callused hands touching her makes Darcy’s head spin, but she keeps her face cool as she turns away and walks back to the door. Perhaps she adds an extra sway to her hips, for motivation. “For now,” she says, opening the door and looking back at him. 

Clint stands and walks toward her, and for a moment, Darcy forgets to breathe. He stops before her, and she sees the world beyond her door beginning to settle upon him, the lightness in his eyes dimming a bit beneath the grief and the guilt and the trauma that he cannot, cannot repress any longer. She watches as he leans in. She feels his left hand grasp hers, and then he says, his voice a rough murmur that stills her, “Thank you.”

Darcy nods, unable to speak. She squeezes his hand, his palm warm in hers, then he pulls away, walking down the hall without looking back. She waits until Clint turns the corner to close the door, then she slides down to the floor, breathless. 

_Can’t I do both?_

Yes.

No.

Yes.

*

The sun sets when Steve finds Sif once more. She stands by the edge of the deck, staring at the sky, the clouds a luminous coral over an indigo sea. He stops for a moment and watches her. He can’t not, her hair down and blowing in the breeze, her legs long in tall boots. He remembers the tales the Warriors told of her in Asgard, their tone the same hushed reverence that he has heard within Clint for Natasha. But they only spoke of Sif as a warrior; they only focused on her strength and her will and her skill in battle. They failed to see her warmth, the sly humor that he has only just begun to glimpse in her eyes. They failed to see the woman who looks at New York and smiles.

_This city, it hums._

Steve misses what could have been with Peggy. He knows that, if fate had allowed them, they could have been extraordinary. He does not want the same to occur with Sif, for her to remain nothing more than a promise unfulfilled, so, breathing in, he smoothes a hand over his shirt and starts forward. 

Sif does not turn as he approaches, but Steve knows that she hears him. He stops beside her and peers at the view, the coral clouds becoming russet as the sun sinks into the horizon. After a moment, she says, “You do not see such views on Asgard.” 

“No,” he says, a small smile appearing on his face. “But you don’t see floating towers or bridges made out of rainbow glass here either.” He looks at her, but still she does not turn to him. “I wish I could have seen more of Asgard when I was there.”

“You will,” she says. “Thor will be king. It is certain that he will request your attendance at the coronation.”

His mind boggles at the thought of a coronation on Asgard, in that palace, so vast and golden. And him, there, Steve shakes his head. Brooklyn and his life before the war feel so far from him now. Him, the punk kid, friends with a soon-to-be-king of another planet. Him, the shrimp, with Sif, a goddess, worshipped so long ago. Marvels of Tomorrow indeed. “Maybe then you could show me more of the realm,” he says to Sif now.

_Perhaps tomorrow you would consent to show me more of the city._

_I would like that._

He sees her smile at the memory, and the sight stills him. “I would like that,” she says, turning toward him, and he freezes at the sheen of tears in her eyes. “But I do not know if I shall be able to do so.”

“Why?” he asks, stemming the worry inside of him until he knows.

Sif hesitates. She looks back at the sunset, then up at the sky, the edge of the moon gleaming high above them. A few seconds pass and then she says, her voice quiet, “It is rare for one who forsakes the realm to be allowed entrance again. At least, for Odin this had been so. I do not know if Thor shall continue the tradition.” She pauses and then says, lowering her gaze, “I will not know.”

“Sif, what—”

“I have…” she says, pausing again and glancing down at her hands. The cuts from her fall in Paris have already healed. His chest still feels raw in places from the Destroyer; a few scrapes remain on his face. 

She swallows and looks up at Steve. When he meets her eyes, he sees anticipation in them, hesitant, yet clear in the sunlight. “When Thor and Frigga return to Asgard,” she says, “I will not accompany them. I have decided to remain here, on Midgard.” She stares at him, and the faint blush that he loves colors her cheeks. He watches as she glances away and then looks back at him, her gaze resolute. “I desire to know the opportunity that this realm has provided for Thor and Loki. The freedom. I desire to know, to know…” She stops, but he knows what she wants to say.

_Few conjure the rune, save for family or those… for those…_

_Those in love?_ he had asked.

Sif watches him and waits for him to respond. Words do not come to Steve, but he doesn’t mind. He has always been a man of action anyway. Moving toward her now, he reaches out and pulls her close, catching another glimpse of the sly humor and warmth in her eyes as he leans in and kisses her.

_This city, it hums._

_I would like that._

His prior kisses cannot compare, the giddy, nervous pecks of his childhood; the few meaningless embraces during the war with admirers of Captain America; the rushed, last, astonishing moment with Peggy. Those felt illusory, chimerical. This feels real, tangible and palpable. 

To Steve, this feels like home. 

*

The bottle of Moskovskaya vodka sits between them, Loki recalling it from his flat in India, from where he had displaced it upon their move to St. Petersburg. They sit now in Natasha’s quarters on the Carrier, the room nearly as devoid of personal objects as her apartment in New York. The only items of note rest in a small display case on a table by the bed: a matryoshka doll that looks like Natasha, a slip of paper inked with a short musical composition, a small pistol with a handle inlaid with pearl, and a gold chain with a thin gold pendant, a flat disc with a pattern of punctures that Loki thinks is in the shape of a constellation.

He watches as Natasha leans back on the couch and closes her eyes. He does not know what to say. He has the words for a hundred lies and manipulations at the ready, on the tip of his silver tongue. But this— reconciliation, forgiveness— he does not know. Loki almost laughs at the sensation. How does one apologize? How does one express remorse, concern, or love? Thor knows. Frigga does, too. Even Natasha, in Omsk and St. Petersburg. 

_This is not a game._

_I love you. And I know you love me._

Even in Paris, Loki lay transfixed as she spoke of the eloquence and mystery of absolution, of how he, he still does not know how, brought forth love into her life, despite Anna, despite the Academy, despite his own efforts to break her and him and the both of them with his rage.

_I wasn’t made for love. But I do. I feel._

_And I wouldn’t, not like this, if it weren’t for you._

How did she do this? How did she find the words to soothe him, to save him? Loki cannot ask. He cannot ask her to tell him how to tell her how he feels. Perhaps he could speak to Thor. The Thor of old would have delighted in such a conversation, in the opportunity for he and Loki to be as brothers, but now? Loki does not know. He does not know how Thor regards him, not now, not after Odin. Thor did not express any hatred in the moments after their father dissipated, but, then again, he would not.

He is not Loki.

Maybe the Captain would help, but Loki will not disturb now, not in his distress over Winter. 

He shakes his head and almost laughs again. For this, Odin would have understood, his father as inexperienced and abysmal with apologies as Loki himself. But Odin is gone, and he is gone for Loki to do just this, to find and feel more than hatred. But how? How?

_There’s everything for you here. You’re just too afraid to take it._

_I’m not afraid._

He is. He was. Of this, Natasha had been correct. He demeans sentiment, but he is sentiment; he feels, and he hates it, so he runs. Not running requires a strength that Loki does not possess, or he did not. Now, he does not know. 

_We can be more. You can be more. I saw it._

How did she know? What did he say, what did he do before to convey this before? 

_Why did you give me this if you don’t care about me?_

Loki looks at Natasha, sleep tugging at the tension in her shoulders. He remembers finding her in Latveria, tied to that chair, broken and bleeding, and he did not hesitate, he didn’t contemplate whether or not to bestow upon her the rune. He knows now that he did it as much for her as for him, Loki wanting more of her, this woman who had stood before him and saved him. Would a gesture suffice now for this? Loki does not know. Natasha interpreted his regard for her in the rune, but she spoke of her love to him in St. Petersburg. Does she expect the same in return? The words claw at his throat, demanding release, demanding suppression.

_You will run, and they will find you and all will begin again, but all may not end as you wish it to end._

_Choose wisely, Odinson._

Loki breathes in. He glances at the case and then at Natasha. 

_The mistakes don’t mean you shouldn’t try._

Drawing in another breath, he looks back at the case and says, “May I add something?”

Natasha opens her eyes, alert in an instant. She looks at Loki and then follows his gaze to the case. She stares at the objects in the glass; Loki wants to ask her about them, but he will not. She will tell him when she desires. Or she will not, and he will try to understand. He waits now as she stares. He feels her gaze shift to him. He meets her eyes, and Natasha regards him for a moment before nodding.

Loki stands and walks over to the case, lifting the lid from the top. He peers down at the gun, the necklace, hesitating.

_I’m not afraid._

_Then prove it._

Loki exhales and then closes his eyes. He pictures the desired object in his mind, pushes through the boundaries of space, and then tugs; a few seconds pass and then he feels the feather from Munin materialize in his hand. 

Natasha’s breath stills behind him, the only sign of her surprise. Opening his eyes, Loki stares at the feather, the top still mangled by the bullet from Winter, the barbs there stiff with her blood.

_I thought you might want a memento. That’s what it’s for, isn’t it? For you to remember?_

_I don’t want to remember._

Natasha did not reach him then, though she had tried. Loki could not see beyond Winter and Anna and his own wretched self. His fingers touch the damaged end now. He remembers her shrug of indifference at her wound, he remembers the stillness of Winter, his silence as Loki questioned him about Natasha in Paris. Without turning, he says to her, his voice quiet, “I spoke with him in Paris. With Winter.”

She is silent, then she says, “You did?” her tone revealing nothing.

Loki almost smiles at that. Her time for revelation has passed; the time now is his, and this she knows. “Yes. We spoke about you.”

“Did you now?”

Loki nods. 

“Did you focus on anything in particular?” 

Loki nods again. He breathes in. His hand tightens on the feather. “I asked him why he didn’t kill you in St. Petersburg.”

The stillness of the room overwhelms him, the silence thick and heavy. Loki closes his eyes and breathes in again, then he places the feather on the table beside the case and faces her. Natasha sits at the edge of the couch, her fingers curled into the cushion beneath her. “What did he say?” she asks, a thread of tension now in her words, her spine.

Loki holds her gaze. He will not relent. “He said the same thing I did.”

Natasha raises a brow. “And what is that?”

And Loki cannot breathe, the air, the words caught in his chest. He looks back at the objects in the case. One of them must be from him, from Winter, the music the likeliest option, more than this, a slight sheet of paper, detectable by Anna and the Academy. 

_He never succumbed to sentiment._

But he had. And so had Loki. How could they not? How could they not for her?

“Because he loves you,” he says, and he lifts the feather, placing it in the case beside the doll, the end of the quill resting beside the barrel of the gun. “As do I.”

Natasha does not respond. Loki replaces the lid and waits. The silence unnerves him, both the length and the magnitude. He resists the urge to cast an illusion so that he may turn to observe her unawares. She has endured enough deception from him. Instead, he swallows, then pauses, and then turns. He can’t not. He has to know.

Natasha still sits on the edge of the couch, her fingers still curl into the cushion beneath her, her eyes still focus on him, and Loki remembers the intensity of her gaze as he revealed to her the meaning behind the Helm at the top of Stark Tower. Natasha stares at him another moment and then she nods, leaning back once more. She looks away and raises a brow, and, if Loki were not watching, if he were not waiting, he would have missed the smile. “Took you long enough,” she says, peering at him again.

_Natasha! Agent Romanov, you need to open your eyes and look at me right now._

And she did, she had, Natasha had opened her eyes and she had looked at Loki, tied to that chair, beaten but not broken, and he remembers the relief that unfurled cool and steady within him as she said his name, as he heard the same hint of a smile in her voice as he sees now on her face as she said to him, _Took you long enough_.

“Well,” he says, glancing down, abashed by the truth of her words, but light, so light inside, “I needed a little persuading.”

“A little?” she asks, and Loki laughs at that; he hears Natasha laugh as well. Looking at her once more, he sees the edges that he had sharpened soften, and he begins to feel again the hope that he had felt in Omsk. Perhaps they may know love. Perhaps they may know peace, the liar and the killer. Perhaps fate will allow them to be more.

“Stay with me,” she says.

Loki nods. He watches as Natasha pushes up from the couch and walks over to him. She clasps his hand and leads him to the bed. He follows, and they ease down onto the mattress. Natasha faces the wall and pulls him behind her, wrapping his arm around her, and Loki leans his head against hers, breathing in the scent of pomegranate in her hair. He feels her exhale, and he closes his eyes. 

_Tell me_ , he had said.

_I love you._

_As do I._

*


	36. Shake It Out, Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Destroyer reaches for Natasha. She closes her eyes, her body tensing. Death, she knows, will not be kind. Not to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for references to a sexual relationship between a minor (Natasha at 14) and an adult (Winter) during their time together at the Academy. The title is from the Florence and the Machine song of the same name.

The Destroyer reaches for Natasha. She closes her eyes, her body tensing. Death, she knows, will not be kind. Not to her.

The metal hand grasps her throat, but the kill does not come. She feels the thumb caress her skin instead, a gesture so slight, too tender than the hand, crafted for a soldier, has any right to be.

She turns away, and the hand drifts across her shoulder and down her arm, cool, so cool. Natasha would shiver, but she, too, is cool, the blue now inside her. The hand grasps hers and leads her in a dance, a waltz by the water in the crisp moonlight. 

By the water, the hand tenses, and Natasha stills too. She feels the hand begin to squeeze, and her fingers snap beneath the pressure. The blunt edge of a ring pierces her skin, and Natasha cannot breathe as she opens her eyes, as a shadow blocks the moonlight, as fire erupts around her, the flames the color of the blood on her hands.

No, Death will not be kind. 

Not to her.

*

Natasha wakes, but she does not open her eyes. She lies still in the darkness and the silence, breathing in as the dream begins to fade. She does not try to retain the images, feeling no desire to analyze the tangled web of her subconscious. It is enough that the pain in her left hand lingers, a phantom reminder of Doom and his desire to kill her.

_Have your AI inform Ms. Romanova that, when I return from Asgard, she will suffer for murdering Anna._

Jarvis had done so, finding a quiet moment after the team had returned from Paris to play her the audio. She had not asked for the video, having no wish to watch Fury die, and Jarvis, thankfully, had not offered. Even now, the rage in Doom’s voice stills her. Had he cared so much for Anna? Natasha doesn’t know how he could have cared for such a woman, but then she had thought the same thing about herself, believing herself to be incapable of love and being loved, and now she feels both with Loki. Perhaps Doom had felt the same for Anna.

_What lengths would a man such as he go to in order to rescue a woman such as you?_

Doom could not rescue Anna, not as Loki could rescue her, but the sentiment still applies. What lengths would Doom go to in order to attain revenge against Natasha? He had kidnapped her and tortured her in retribution for money stolen, for the beginnings of an investigation against him. For murder, for Anna, what would he do? Natasha knows what Anna would have done. She experienced her revenge twice already, once in Estonia and then in St. Petersburg. 

_He will come after you. I have made sure of it._

_Let him come._

Winter came, first for her and then for Loki. Natasha doesn’t know now if he will come again, not with the revelation about his past with Steve, about his life as Bucky. At the thought of Steve, Natasha sighs and opens her eyes. She knows she must speak with him, she knows he has questions about Winter and his time at the Academy that only she can answer, but the thought of delving into that part of her past again unsettles and discomfits her.

_And you slept with him?_

_Pay him his compliments when he comes for you. He taught you well._

She knows that jealousy over Winter had fueled, in part, Loki’s desire to run, yet he seemed calm last night when he revealed that he had spoken with Winter in Paris, when he told her that Winter still loved her. Perhaps the disaster that she fears from such a remembrance will not come. The thought would comfort her more if Loki, though, were still beside her. 

_There’s everything for you here. You’re just too afraid to take it._

_I’m not afraid._

_Then prove it. Stop running._

Natasha turns to where he lay the night before. In his place, she finds the sword, the symbol of the twin snakes on the blade collar gleaming in the early morning light. The symbol had led her to Loki before, all the way from Asgard to the Louvre. It would now, she knows, and so does Loki. Why else would he have left it for her? 

Natasha runs one finger against the top of the blade, the black glass cool to the touch. Loki had not run, but he had not stayed either. Perhaps tonight he would. For this, Natasha will hope. For now, though, she rises and prepares to remember the past.

*

In the calm of the morning, Steve delves into the past. He scans through S.H.I.E.L.D. records, searching for any reference to Bucky, to the Winter Soldier. He finds only a few, no more than rumors conveyed by informants, stories of a man with a metal arm, the deadliest man in the world. Steve had expected a file from Natasha at the least; he knows she went through extensive debrief upon her defection, but all he finds from those early interrogations is basic information about the Academy, a chilling file on Anna Volenskaya, and a few more specific reports about particular missions that Natasha had completed. But nothing about Bucky. 

Frowning, Steve expands the search and finds a report from Clint about Natasha’s kidnapping by the Red Room. The details there unsettle him. Could Bucky have participated in such torture? Had the Academy changed him that much? He knows that Loki swayed Clint into attacking and killing his own team, but that involved magic, it involved technology far beyond what anyone possessed on Earth. But if the Academy had decades, maybe they could—

A knock pulls Steve from his thoughts. Placing his tablet on the table before him, he rises and crosses to the door, opening it to find Natasha on the other side. She meets his gaze, and he sees that some of the edginess that had been within her since her return from Russia had vanished. The sight buoys him. They can recover, Natasha and Tony and the team. He can recover, too. They will not be forever lost. 

“You talked to Loki,” he says, stepping back to allow her to pass. 

Natasha nods as she enters his room. 

“Is he all right?” he asks as he closes the door behind her.

“No,” she says. “But he’s here and that’s a start. The rest will just take time.” 

At that, Steve nods. He watches as Natasha scans the room, the action instinct, he knows. Her gaze pauses on the tablet, and he sees her lips compress, the only sign of her discomfort. Moving forward, Steve closes the file on her kidnapping. “It wasn’t my intention to pry,” he says, facing her now. “I just—”

“You wanted information about Winter,” she says.

Again, Steve nods. He sits and waits for her to do the same, but Natasha remains standing. She moves about the room, glancing at his shield, his sketches. She lifts one of he and Bucky and the Commandos, drawn from memory of the time before the train, before he thought that Bucky had died. Her eyes linger on Bucky; Steve shifts on the couch and waits for her to speak, but Natasha stays silent instead. After another moment, he clears his throat and says, “Natasha—”

“You won’t find anything about Winter in the database,” she says, dropping the sketch and turning back to him. Her voice is brisk, focused. She stands before him as a soldier, not as a teammate or a friend. “There isn’t—”

“Natasha, this isn’t debrief. I just want to talk.”

At that, Natasha looks away. She stares down at the tablet, one hand clenched by her side. Steve feels discomfort, cold and heavy, settle in him; he hadn’t realized this would be difficult for her, Natasha so calm and composed when she suggested returning to Russia to investigate Doom. Of course, she would hesitate now, given the disastrous outcome to that journey into her past, Bucky shooting her in retaliation for Anna. Steve shakes his head. He had only thought of himself and his desire to rescue his friend. How could he have been so selfish? 

“I’m sorry,” he says, standing now. “You don’t have to—”

“He loved me.”

Steve blinks at that, thrown. “What?”

“He still does, if Loki’s right. And he usually is.”

“I— I didn’t know.”

“Nobody knew,” she says, glancing back at him. “Except Loki, and he just discovered it in Paris.” Natasha pauses, returning her gaze to the tablet. Steve waits, and, after a moment, she continues, her voice haze with remembrance. “I thought I could help him by staying silent. I thought he would have left Russia after I did, and he could have had something like a clean slate. But he never left.”

“Why?”

Natasha shrugs. “I know he stayed before for me. At least in part. Maybe that’s why he still stayed. I don’t know.”

“Natasha, you don’t—”

“I was twelve the first time I saw him. I had—” She looks away and swallows before returning her gaze to Steve. The story spills from her, the words almost sentient, with a mind and a will of their own, demanding to be spoken, demanding to be heard. “I had just killed for the first time, and he was there. He must have returned from a mission. They had placed us in the same holding area, and I remember… I remember him looking at me. I had blood on my clothes, my arms. I still had my knife in my hands, but he didn’t look proud as so many of the others did. Instead, he looked… he looked sad.”

Natasha turns away. Steve sinks back onto the couch. He doesn’t know if he wants her to stop or to continue. She drifts back over to the drawing and stares at it before speaking again. “I didn’t see him again until I was fourteen. Then it was because I had chosen him.”

“Chosen?”

Natasha looks back at Steve, and the implication sinks in. He looks away, furious for Natasha, for Bucky, for what the Academy made them do.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “As first times go, it could have been worse. He was— I chose him for a reason. Others weren’t quite so fortunate.”

Steve cringes at the bitter tinge to her voice. Bile rises in his throat, and he swallows it down and breathes in. Fury must have had a reason for not going after the Academy before now, for letting them elude justice for so long. When they resolve the conflict with Doom, he will question why. He hopes for the sake of S.H.I.E.L.D. that they have a reasonable reason for the delay.

Breathing in again, Steve turns back to Natasha and finds her focused once more on the drawing. The pain on her face is palpable. He rises and takes a step toward her, stopping when she says, “I should never have chosen him.” 

“Why? If he was— if he was better?”

“They must have seen something in him. Anna said that he never succumbed to sentiment, but he had and they must have seen it. They sent me on too many missions with him for it to be just a coincidence.” She shakes her head at that, lost in the past. Steve watches, unsure of what to do, if he should move forward or retreat. He had not anticipated this, but what had he anticipated? He doesn’t know.

“Natasha—”

“I knew,” she says. Her hands clench by her sides. “I knew how he felt about me. And I used it. To survive.”

Natasha faces him now. Steve sees tears in her eyes. He moves toward her again, stopping when she tenses. “Natasha—”

“I left him there, Steve. Clint came, and he offered me a chance, and I left. I ran. And I didn’t look back. I didn’t go back. I—”

A knock on the door interrupts Natasha. Steve freezes at the sound; he sees Natasha do the same. Steve wants to ignore the intruder, he wants Natasha to continue, but the person on the other side knocks again, louder this time and more insistent. Natasha looks at the door and then turns away. Steve closes his eyes, but restrains his sigh as the knocking resumes. Steve strides over to the door and yanks it open to find Darcy on the other side. 

“Hi,” she says, breathless. “I’m really sorry to bother you, but I have to speak to Natasha. Is she in here?” She tries to peer around him, standing on tiptoes. “Someone said she was in here.”

“Darcy, can’t it wait?”

Darcy blinks at his abrupt tone. But the uncertainty lingers only for a moment. Staring straight at Steve, she says, her face and voice set, “Only if you want Clint and Loki to kill each other.”

At that, Steve hears Natasha move behind him. He turns as she approaches and finds her calm and composed once more, the past no more than a distant memory. Without glancing at Steve, she says to Darcy, “What happened?”

“So you know how I asked you about Clint that one time so I could buy him thank you gifts for saving my life?”

Natasha nods.

“Well, we kind of became friends after that. Or maybe more than friends. Or we could be, but we can’t, or I won’t, at least not now because he has some _major_ issues to deal with.”

Natasha raises a brow. “And?”

“And I told him this. That he needed to deal with his issues. And I think that’s what he’s doing right now, and now I’m kind of worried he’ll seriously piss off his issues and his issues will, you know, kill him.”

Steve watches as Natasha straightens, slipping into the bearing of spy and soldier. “What does this have to do with Loki?” he asks, exhausted by the convoluted tale. And here he thought only Tony capable of such whirlwind speech.

Darcy looks at Steve like he’s grown a second head. “Loki is the issue,” she says, as if that clarifies anything. 

“Clint’s confronting Loki right now,” Natasha says, translating as she moves past him out into the hall. “They’re probably at the cage. Will you—”

Steve nods. “Go. I’ll get Thor and meet you there.”

Natasha nods once and takes off down the hall. Turning to Darcy, Steve says, “Find Tony and Bruce. Tell them what’s happening. Discreetly,” he adds, eyeing a few passing members of S.H.I.E.L.D. as they walk by. 

Darcy follows his gaze. “Can do, Captain,” she says, thankfully without saluting. He watches as she follows Natasha down the hall, then he retreats into his room to grab his shield. Steve pauses a moment at the drawing of Bucky and the Commandos. He hopes the moment for disclosure with Natasha has not passed, but he will not press the issue if it has. He will never press the issue. He’ll listen if she wants to talk again, but if not, he’ll find a way to find Bucky on his own. After all, he did it once before. He will again.

*

High above the cage, Clint watches Loki. He sits on the bench, his back to Clint, still in the same position as when Clint first arrived fifteen minutes before. Clint doesn’t know how long Loki had been in the cage prior to this, perhaps twenty minutes, perhaps the entire hour that Clint had been searching for him. He supposes he should analyze the significance of the placement, Loki in the cage of his own free will. In any other mission, such knowledge would be vital, but Clint cannot bring himself to do so, not just yet. He—

“Are you going to stay up there all day, Barton?”

—scowls. Confrontation hadn’t been his intention for this mission. His intention had been recon, observing Loki from a distance in order to determine exactly what the more insane members of his team saw in the man. Once he knew, he could deal and then Darcy would sit next to him and life could proceed on as usual: train, fight, train some more, then convince Darcy of the necessity of wearing a tight dress for their first date while continuing to ignore Loki and everything related to his existence. But Loki knew he was there, so Clint could run, he could stay where he was, or he could descend.

_You need to talk to him._

_You need to deal with it, or start to deal with it anyway._

Repressing his sigh, Clint traverses the rafters above the cage. He pauses above the controls at the front of the room. All he can see of Loki from this angle are his legs, clad in boots and armor. He sees no weapons, but then Loki could call them from thin air whenever he desired. Besides, he wouldn’t need weapons to teleport Clint into the middle of the ocean or out into the vastness of space; he could kill Clint and return to the Carrier in less than ten seconds, and no one would be the wiser. 

_He’ll kill you if he gets his powers back._

_He won’t have to play at atoning anymore in order to survive._

But Loki hadn’t killed Natasha. He’d even engineered her rescue from Doom in Latveria. And, it seems, he had sacrificed himself or whatever to save the team from the Destroyer in Paris. But he had also tried to break Natasha after her lie and he manipulated her into her suicide mission to Asgard—

_What did you do?_

_What I always do._

_This is my choice, Clint, whatever happens._

Clint grits his teeth. Natasha feeling guilty for her lie does not absolve Loki for his part in what occurred. He chose Asgard as the price for her atonement; the Destroyer came from Asgard; the damage then is on his hands. And he crossed Doom, stealing money from him because he could, which sent Doom on his path for revenge, the path that had placed him into direct conflict with Fury. He—

“I know you think Asgardians immortal, Barton, but I really don’t have all day.”

—rechecks the guns in his holsters, the knife in his boot, and the garrote in his belt. Fine. If Loki wanted a confrontation, Clint would give him one. He breathes in once and then drops, landing in a crouch beside the controls. Clint waits a moment and then rises, his eyes fixed on Loki. Loki meets his gaze, but he does not move from the bench; he continues to sit, his hands clasped loosely before him, and Clint searches for something, some emotion, some clue within Loki as to how this conversation will proceed, but Loki presents him with a countenance as blank as the walls of the Cage. The sight reminds Clint of Natasha, and he scowls again.

_Why him? Why not— why not me?_

_Because he understands._

The last time Clint had really seen Loki had been that day, the day Natasha had revealed her regard for him, before she had left with him for Russia. Loki looks the same, a little thinner, perhaps, a little paler, understandable given recent events, but Clint refuses to give Loki any pity for the death of Odin.

After all, he hadn’t given them the same consideration for Phil. 

Clint waits, but Loki does not speak again. He merely watches, and Clint wonders if he had spoken before just to get him down here. The thought makes his hands itch for an arrow to shoot at that smug, manipulative eye. As if he knows, Loki raises a brow, but still he does not speak. Clint tries to think of something, anything, to say to get this demented show on the road. His eyes drift from Loki to the cage and, seizing upon it, he says, “Why are you in there?”

Loki glances at the cage. “This is where I belong, is it not?”

Clint narrows his eyes at the evasion. “Not according to half my team, it isn’t.”

Loki doesn’t respond; he just stares at Clint instead. Clint grits his teeth at that, but he holds his gaze. He will not relent. He sees the flicker of something, some emotion, pass over Loki’s face, but it vanishes before he can discern anything. Another few seconds of silence pass, and then Loki says, “This unsettles you, your team and their regard for me.” 

Now Clint raises a brow. “Shouldn’t it?”

Again, Loki doesn’t respond. He continues to stare, seemingly serene in the cage, but then Clint seems calm before the controls when instead he feels exposed and unsettled, vulnerable and raw. The buzz of white noise starts at the back of his brain, and the memories come in flashes, in bits, Loki smiling as his mind slips away, Clint shooting at Fury, at Maria, Natasha spinning away from him, his bow in her hands. 

_Have you ever had someone take your brain and play? Pull you out and stuff something else in?_

_You know what it's like to be unmade?_

Clint looks away from Loki. He closes his eyes and tries to breathe in, but his throat constricts, denying him air.

_Clint, you’re going to be all right._

_You know that? Is that what you know?_

He knows he killed two guards in Germany, maybe three. No one had given him a precise count for the Carrier, the official records on lockdown, accessible only by a higher security clearance, but he had tried to do the math, he had tried to figure it out—

“Why are you here, Barton?”

The question is sharp, the why ringing through the silence, snapping Clint back to the present. He opens his eyes and looks again at Loki, anger beginning to rush through him at the continued manipulation. Why does he care if Clint drowns in the past? Does he intend to be his salvation as well as his damnation? Does he think this will curry favor with Natasha, with the rest of the team, if he fixes what he had broken? 

Clint clenches his hands, trying to restrain the impulse to grab his guns and shoot until the clips are empty, until the man before him is dead. He watches as Loki stands and walks to the middle of the cage; he peers at Clint, his gaze intense, the blue of his eyes the blue of the spear and the blue of Clint’s nightmares. Another moment passes, and then Loki says, “Are you here to kill me?” 

He seems intrigued by the possibility. Clint smiles, a nasty one that surfaces from the depths of his childhood. “Yes,” he says. “Or I would be if it were up to me.”

“But?” Loki asks, a faint smirk on his face.

Clint narrows his eyes. They both know the reason he will not, the reason why he does not use his gun or garrote or knife, the reason why he does not drop the cage or pump nerve gas into the enclosure.

Natasha.

_On the roof, you asked me why I couldn’t have chosen Steve or Bruce or someone other than Loki._

_I said then that it wasn’t a choice. And it wasn’t, not then._

_But it is now._

Clint remembers the look in her eyes then as she said goodbye, and his anger at Loki brightens and flares. Taking a step away from the controls, he says, the words brittle and sharp, “Do you know that she thought she would die in her little mission to save you? That she gave me a key to a safety deposit box, that she told me ‘just in case’ before she left?”

At that, Loki looks away. He begins to pace the length of the cage, and the sight reminds Clint of a scene deep underground, as from a dream, Loki pacing a hall or a tunnel, Clint cannot discern which. He waits, but Loki does not respond to his revelation. Is the silence indifference or deceit, a sign that he does not care about Natasha or that he does? Clint does not know, but he will find out. There is no way in hell that he’ll let Loki push him without pushing back. 

“You’ve got some nerve, you know that?” he says. “Making _her_ apologize to _you_.”

Loki looks at him again, the smirk once more on his face. “You believe I made Natasha do something she did not desire to do? You must not know her as well as you claim.”

_This is my choice, Clint, whatever happens._

His hand itches again for his bow, but he stems the urge and says instead, “Because you don’t have ways of… persuading people to do what _you_ want them to do, even if they resist.”

_You have heart._

Loki stares at Clint, a tiger fixed on its prey. “Do you believe this is what happened to Natasha?”

Yes flares within him, insistent and bright. Clint wants to smash the truth of Natasha choosing to help Loki, of choosing him; he wants to watch Loki fall before the lie as so many have fallen before his. But instead he says, “No,” the word short and terse and tense. 

At that, Loki stops pacing. He turns toward Clint and says, “This troubles you more than the alternative.”

“Of course it does. Why wouldn’t it?”

“Because Natasha is content. As her… friend, is this not something you desire for her?”

“Not with you.”

“Why not?”

Clint stares at Loki, unable, at first, to respond. “Are you insane or just stupid?” he asks, taking a step toward the cage. “Or is this your idea of a joke?”

“Neither, Agent Barton. I am merely curious.”

“Curious.” 

Loki nods.

And now Clint laughs, the turn in the conversation too absurd to bear. Why wouldn’t he want Natasha with Loki? What objection could he have? Loki must know. A liar and a killer he may be, but the man is not stupid. Or is he? Does he think he can talk Clint into acceptance of him? Does he think that anything he can say will repair the damage that he has wrought? The thought makes Clint laugh again, but then he sees Loki tilt his head to the side, and the gesture ignites the rage within him. “Why wouldn’t I want Natasha with you?” he asks, shaking with laughter and trembling with rage. Why wouldn’t he? Loki had asked. “You’re a monster,” he says. “That’s why not.”

Again, again, Loki does not respond. He just stares at Clint, and Clint feels the gaze seep into him and unfurl, taking root in his gut. “So you don’t believe that a person may change?” he asks, his voice low, the hypnotic thrum from Clint’s nightmares. “You believe they are forever what they were?”

Clint does not respond, the white noise buzzing in the back of his brain.

After a moment, Loki continues. “This did not seem to be the case with Natasha. You spared her life—”

“Don’t talk about that—”

But Loki does. Why would he not? “Is the difference then between her and I your love for her? Or does the difference lie in the choice of victim, hers unknown strangers and mine… you?” 

_You have heart._

Clint looks away. He feels his throat constrict again; his hands clench. The words echo within him, blue like his eyes, blue like his mind. The blue had been soothing, smothering. The blue had calmed and confined him. The blue—

“Or is it both?” Loki asks, pressing on, pressing forward. “You care for Natasha, but rather than responding to your regard in kind, she chooses instead the monster that seized your heart, that made you kill, that—”

Clint grabs his gun and fires. The bullets bounce off Loki’s armor, then imbed in the glass of the cage. The room rings from the shots, and he hears a shout, but Clint can’t tell if it comes from the present or the past. He feels his hand tremble as Loki glances down at the marks on his chest. 

“Humans and their guns,” he says, shaking his head. He looks up at Clint and quirks a brow. “Arrows suit you better.”

“Wait here. I’ll go get my bow.”

“And then what, once you’ve killed me? Will the guilt lift from your heart? Will your dreams stop?”

“No,” Clint says, his hand tightening on his gun, “but at least I won’t have to look at you anymore or—”

“Or what?” Loki asks. “Be reminded of what occurred? Do you feel their blood on your hands, Agent Barton, those that died here? Do you feel the guilt settle upon you? Do you cave beneath the weight?”

_Natasha, how many agents—_

_Don’t._

_Don’t do this to yourself, Clint._

“You did nothing, Barton.”

_You feel guilty._

_You think you’re to blame._

“I did.”

The admission stills Clint. He looks at Loki, who regards him, his face no longer the blank page, but suffused with something, Clint does not know what. He watches as Loki swallows; his jaw tenses. He exhales, but the tension does not leave his body. “I did,” he says again. “I forced your hand. I raised your bow.”

_Natasha, how many—_

_Don’t._

_This is Loki._

“I did this, Barton. Not you.”

_This is monsters and magic and nothing we were ever trained for._

Is this the window? Clint stares at Loki, but the rage does not diminish within him; the guilt does not lessen. Instead, they grow. Always they grow. 

_Clint, you’re going to be all right._

_You know that? Is that what you know?_

“You’re right,” Clint says, the gun heavy in his hand. “I did nothing. I let you—”

Loki shakes his head. 

Clint opens his mouth.

Then the air crackles, green light flashes, and Loki is there before him. Clint raises the gun, but Loki knocks the gun aside and seizes him by the throat. He lifts Clint from the floor as Clint grabs the knife in his boot, but Loki slams him to the floor before he can use it. The knife falls from his hand and the walkway shudders beneath him, the crash echoing throughout the room. Clint tries to free himself, but Loki holds him fast as he says, “No, Barton. You did not _let_ me. You had no choice. I seized your mind. No one could have withstood this, not you, not Natasha, not even Thor or your Hulk.”

_You’re only human._

_You’re only human._

_And that pisses you off the most._

Clint hears another shout, and he knows now that the team lurks outside. Loki, though, does not relax his grip. He bears down upon Clint, denying Clint access to his garrote, but still allowing him to breathe. “Your inability to withstand the influence of the spear does not signify your weakness, Barton. If you were weak, you would not be here now confronting me. If you were weak,” he says, and here he pauses, the hesitation less than a second, but long enough for Clint to see, “you would have run.”

_Where is he?_

_He’s on Earth. But only until the day after tomorrow unless I can fix what I did._

They stare at each other, and does Clint tremble or is that Loki? Clint stills, but before he can discern the truth, Loki stands and turns abruptly away. He glances at the cage, and Clint sees the grimace on his face, the twist of the lips the same as on Natasha when the past descends upon her, when she thinks that Clint cannot see.

_What did you do?_

_What I always do._

“You’re not the only one who has to bear what I did,” Loki says now, his voice so quiet that Clint has to strain to hear. He eases into a sitting position as Loki looks to the side; Clint knows without turning that he gazes at the place where he killed Phil. As he watches Loki, he sees a shadow shift to his right, and Clint knows that Natasha has entered the room. She watches them from beneath the cage, but she makes no move to approach. Glancing back at Loki, Clint finds that he stares now at him, and the gaze unsettles him, too stark, too palpable for comfort. 

“You call me a monster as though I don’t know this,” Loki continues, “but I harbor no more self-delusions. I was a monster. Now I will try not to be.”

_When you found me in Prague, when you looked at me that first time, you saw a person…a good person. But I can’t be, Clint._

_I can do good. Now._

_But I can’t be good._

Clint had denied Natasha’s claim then as he had denied it before and denied it after. She was a good person, one twisted and marred by the Red Room, by the circumstance of her life before he had found her. She had killed because they said kill; she had lied because they told her to lie. Her fault lie with the Red Room, not with herself.

_You say it’s because of the Red Room, but it’s not. It wasn’t._

_Not all of it._

That Clint never believed. Or did he never want to believe, his love for Natasha superseding all? He looks at her now, he can’t not, but when he looks at her, he sees not the present, but the past, he sees Natasha in Prague, her hand shaking as she pulled money from her bag for the dancing girl. It was then Clint knew, it was then he knew that more lurked beneath the Black Widow than death and deception. It was then he knew that she was good, that she could be, given the chance.

_You think you’re doing for him what I did for you, but it’s not the same._

Why isn’t it? Is the cage in the Helicarrier different from the square in Prague? Is Clint blind now or had he been before? Clint looks at Loki. Does the difference lie in the fact that he loves Natasha or that he hates Loki? Or is it both, as Loki said?

_You gave me a chance, and I ran with it. And I’ve been running ever since._

_But when he looks at me… When he looks at me, I feel like I can stop. I feel like I can stop running._

_Because he understands._

Clint watches as Loki closes the distance between them. He stands, waiting, his hand hovering above the garrote in his belt, but Loki stops a foot away. “I do not ask for your forgiveness,” he says, his voice still quiet. “I cannot, but neither will I leave simply because this eases your pain. I love Natasha. This is the path I have chosen. Accept it, Barton. You don’t want to see what you can become if you can’t.”

_This doesn’t have to get any messier._

_Of course it does. I’ve come too far for anything else._

The implication unsettles Clint, the possibility of a similar fate falling upon him as upon Loki if he can’t let go, if he can’t move on. He looks at Loki, who holds his gaze. Why had Clint come here? What had he desired from this? He knows that killing Loki had never been an option. And Clint has no desire to die. Did he want something as trite as an apology, or did he want for Loki to realize how monstrous he was and vanish from their lives forever? But this was never an option either, not with the lengths Natasha and Thor and even Steve had gone to in order to bring Loki back into the fold. So what does he want? What does he need? 

Why is he here?

_Why him? Why not— why not me?_

_Because he understands._

_You have heart._

He says the words, he can’t not, the refrain from a half-remembered dream. “‘You have heart.’ What did… what did you mean?”

The question surprises Loki, but only for a moment. “You mean, why did I choose you?”

Clint nods.

Loki stares at him, and Clint expects the mask to return, blank and unyielding, but it does not. Instead, emotions ripple across Loki’s face, shame twisting into guilt that gives way to fear and a kind of yearning. And Clint sees. He understands, the knot within Loki as convoluted as the one within himself, both of them lost in the fog of who they used to be and who they had now become.

“Why wouldn’t I choose you, Barton? You are everything I cannot be.”

_Why him? Why not— why not me?_

_Because you see a good person._

_Because he understands._

Loki holds his gaze another moment, then he moves past Clint to the door. He is careful to elude physical contact. Clint hears the door open, he hears Thor say something, and then Loki leaves, the door shutting softly behind him. In the silence that follows, Clint breathes in. He closes his eyes and exhales and then breathes in again. His hands shake as he moves to holster his gun. He succeeds on the third try. 

He hears Natasha move, her step faint on the walkway. “I still don’t like him,” he says.

“I know.”

“But I can see why you do.”

At that, Clint opens his eyes. Natasha stands before him, his knife in her hands. Her eyes are red, a sign of her crying. Can he ask her about it, or is this now something for Loki to do? He doesn’t know. What was he to her now? Was he her family as she claimed? Were they partners? Friends? Clint doesn’t know how they fit, he and Natasha and Loki, but at least Clint could see, the white noise no longer in his mind. That, at least, was a start.

“I need a drink,” he says. “Do you want to raid Tony’s stash and then blow some stuff up in the training room?”

The relief on her face makes him ache. She nods and moves toward Clint, handing him his knife. He slips the knife back into his boot, then he turns and they ease around the cage to the far door. The geometry between them, he and Natasha and Loki, may still be convoluted, but the knot will untangle. Someday.

For this, Clint will hope.

*


	37. Shake It Out, Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Manipulation from the house of Odin at its best: both a challenge and a rebuke, daring him to stay, berating him for his desire to run. And again Loki feels the guilt, he feels the urge to lash out rise within him, the sharp draw of blood from an apt word or a fitting lie easing the pain in the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the end of the semester & teaching duties took over my life for a few weeks, but I’ve been slowly reclaiming time this past week and have been able to finish the chapter. I am so sorry for the delay. My intention is to get back on a two-week schedule, perhaps even sooner as I have more time to write now. Thank you so much for your patience, and I hope you enjoy the chapter!

“Loki.”

No.

“Loki, wait.”

He doesn’t. He pushes past those gathered by the door, Thor and the Captain, Stark and a woman he’s never seen before. 

_Why wouldn’t I choose you, Barton?_

“Brother, please—”

Loki doesn’t hear the rest. He teleports from the Carrier, from Barton and the cage, from where he terrorized Natasha and dropped Thor and murdered Agent Coulson, from where he sat down and smiled when the Hulk rampaged through the ship, destroying everything.

_You’re a monster._

_Oh, no. You brought the monster._

The Alps rise over him, austere, serene, and Loki breathes for the first time since he woke beside Natasha that morning. He should not have left her, but as he lay beside her, he thought of the day before him, of the likelihood of encountering Thor, who still waited to speak to him, and how he would speak of Frigga, who still lay in the medical wing, and how she mourned for Odin, who died because of Loki, and the ease within him vanished, and he felt instead, he felt what he knew by name, the reality eluding him for centuries, flaring, at times, like the light from a distant, dying star, produced by a crease of the brow on Frigga, a bow of the head from Thor, but only in the early days, before the feeling dissolved, the bitter aftertaste the sole memory, at least until now, until he saw the Captain stare at Winter, tears in his eyes, until he saw Natasha look at him, the Casket staining her skin blue, until he saw Frigga fall, until he saw her fall, and then he felt, he felt so much that he tried his best to burn the feeling away, he tried his best to die.

Guilt.

The guilt returned as he lay beside Natasha, so he ran, only to find more, or for more to find him, Barton staring at him, fragile and furious and all because of Loki.

_Do you know that she thought she would die in her little mission to save you?_

_Because you don’t have ways of… persuading people to do what you want them to do, even if they resist._

Loki closes his eyes and breathes in. The crisp mountain air alleviates some of the pressure inside him. The feel of the sun, though weak in the autumn afternoon, relieves more. But the thoughts linger, Barton and Coulson and Natasha and Odin and Thor, so, opening his eyes, Loki starts for the town, the church spire rising high in the distance. 

At the edge of the town, he changes from his armor to a suit. The neon light of the pharmacy shines as bright in the day as it had in the night the first time he was here, running with Natasha from Venice. His eyes linger on the spot outside the inn where he had found her phone, where he had found the gouges in the road from her heels as she resisted Doom. Anger flares within him at the memory, and this he focuses on, rage preferable to culpability.

He climbs the steps to the church, passing the graves that succumb to the decay of age, passing the place where Natasha had not succumbed, where she had stood before him and his hate and did not relent, but he stops before he reaches the bench, his eyes fixed on the lighted candles.

_Why are you here?_

_I missed my son._

Before, he had hesitated, and this allowed her to turn to him. Now, he turns, but, despite this, she speaks to him. “You will leave your mother all alone?”

Manipulation from the house of Odin at its best: both a challenge and a rebuke, daring him to stay, berating him for his desire to run. And again Loki feels the guilt, he feels the urge to lash out rise within him, the sharp draw of blood from an apt word or a fitting lie easing the pain in the past. 

_Pay him his compliments when he comes for you. He taught you well._

She had barely survived the consequence of his rage. Odin had not. He— 

“So control your anger.”

“Stay out of my mind,” he says, turning back to Frigga. She rises from the bench, her projected form weak in the sunlight, but strong enough for him to see the streaks of white in her hair, the remnants of her fall. 

“Let me in,” she says to him now, “and I shall.”

Loki narrows his eyes. “Why? So you can see how monstrous I am—”

“I know exactly who you are, Loki. I am your mother, so you will calm yourself and sit beside me so that we may converse.”

The reproach stings, stirring the rage. “And if I don’t?” 

The air crackles, green light flashes, and then Frigga is there, the tips of her fingers tingling with magic. “Then I shall make you,” she says, her eyes on him. “Now choose.”

_Someone gave me a chance, and I made a choice._

_We choose who we are, what we become._

_Choose wisely, Odinson._

Loki stares at Frigga, and as suddenly as the heat had flared within him, the fight now cools. He looks at Frigga and sighs, shaking his head, and she releases the gathered magic, returning to the bench to wait for him. He slumps down on the bench beside her, feeling no energy for pretense, exhausted from Barton, from the tedious, vexing, draining, murky, loathsome, necessary process of atonement. He sees Frigga wince as she shifts against the wall, and another pang of guilt darts through him.

“You should not have come,” he says. “You are not yet well.”

Frigga glances at him and raises a brow. “You should not have run.”

Perhaps not, but he had. Will he always? At the thought, Loki sighs again. Natasha had told him that atoning would not be easy; she told him that people err; that they make mistakes; that they lie. Loki had not lied, but he had run after stopping and he had stopped only to run again. Despite his efforts, the cycle endures, though guilt now haunts his steps. Is this progress? He does not—

“Yes.”

Loki turns to Frigga. She spoke without hesitation. But from faith or hope? “You are certain?” he asks. 

She nods.

“Why?”

Frigga holds his gaze. “Because you intended to return.”

He had. This he knows. Loki had declared as much to Barton. He had run from Natasha once; he would not again. “If you knew this,” he asks her now, quirking a brow, “why did you come?”

Frigga smiles, her lips a soft curve bending with the weight of sorrow bred from love. “Because I missed my son,” she says, turning from him to consider the saint before the candles. 

The explanation soothes and stings and surprises. Loki wishes for a drink, for a distraction, for a lie, the moment overwhelming in its delicacy. Instead, he reaches out, hesitates, and then he lays his hand on hers, her fingers slim yet strong. The memories they evoke flood his mind, the comfort they bestowed, their knowledge of magic, their grace. The good in him, whatever lingers, whatever Natasha engendered, whatever Odin proclaimed, derives from her, he knows. Always from her. 

“I had,” he says. “Intended to return.”

“Then let us return,” she says, turning back to him. “Especially since, as you say, I am not yet well.”

Loki glances at Frigga, who looks at him, a wicked gleam in her eye. He smirks at the blatant manipulation, as does she, but the thought of returning still unsettles him, so he says, “In time. I… would like to sit with you.”

“Then let us sit.”

They say no more. The silence embraces them, broken only by the rustle of a faint wind between the gravestones and the distant whistle of a train. Loki gazes at the candles, the flames the color of the sunlight that morning, and the thought recalls further contemplations from the dawn. He had encountered Thor as he anticipated, yet he ran from him as he had not. Again, Loki shakes his head. Always, always, Thor pleads for him to talk, to stop, to return, and always, Loki resists. Always he runs. 

He cannot recall any hatred from Thor in the moments after Odin dispersed, but Loki knows now that this is because he did not look. He would not look. He could not.

Loki, wait.

“How is he?” he asks Frigga now.

Her hand tightens around his. “He worries.” 

Loki clenches his jaw.

_Why do you not hate me for what I’ve done?_

_Because you hate yourself. No man should suffer more than that._

Always, he tries.

“He should not,” Loki says. “I am—”

“He does not worry for you.” 

Loki tries to smother his shock, but he fails. Frigga arches a brow at him, amused. “Does it surprise you,” she asks, “that more occupies his world than you?”

No.

Yes. 

But then it would, for all that occupied Loki’s world for so long had been himself.

“He will be king,” she continues, turning back to the lighted votives. “And he understands that burden now, more than he had before. This weighs on him.” She pauses, and Loki watches the play of emotions upon her face; he feels them in himself, her gaze so clear, her worry and love made manifest. He wonders if she exposes herself so for him or heedless of his presence. “He believed that when he became king Odin would be there to guide him, that you would be there to guide him. But now Odin is gone, and you reject Asgard. He feels he is alone.”

Loki looks at Frigga, his brows drawn together. “But he has you. And the Warriors. And Sif.”

“Not Sif,” she says. At his confusion, she clarifies. “She has decided to forsake the realm.”

Again, her revelation shocks him, and again, Loki attempts to conceal the emotion, shock an indication of ignorance, ignorance, in turn, an intimation of weakness, but again, he fails, this revelation beyond his ability to comprehend. Sif leaving the realm means Sif abandoning Thor, and this Loki thought would never occur, despite Thor’s regard for the mortal. “Why?” he asks.

“You have not seen?”

Loki restrains his sigh and shakes his head.

“She and the Captain care for one another.”

_You surprise me, Captain. You’re not nearly as dull as your name would imply._

_And you’re not nearly as heartless as your previous actions would imply._

He should have seen. He had seen, but he had not understood, his focus so much on himself in Paris when Sif had returned to the square before the Louvre. Loki remembers the way she had looked at the Captain, even when Thor had revealed to them the death of Odin. Why would Sif focus on the Captain then, why would she show such concern for him and not for Thor, if she did not care for him? 

Loki shakes his head again. He should have seen, but how could he have anticipated this, Sif in love with Thor for centuries, her regard for him as predictable and enduring as the rising of the sun each dawn? 

“Are you the sole Aesir with the capacity to surprise?” Frigga asks, amused at his bemusement.

“There is surprise,” Loki says, “and then there is this. This is—”

“More surprising than one who had previously declared love to be illusive light from a star not only finding love and feeling love, but doing so with a mortal?”

Loki gives Frigga a look at the pointed remark. “No,” he says. “Not more surprising than that. But that change, the others, they were engendered by unusual and unanticipated circumstances, circumstances that Sif did not experience—”

“But she did observe.”

And the shocks persist. Loki turns away, the implication too much to endure, the possibility that he would, that he even could, inspire Sif to radical action, especially given her particular regard for him, too much to contemplate. He turns back to Frigga, searching for the jest, but finding none, her gaze sober and sincere. Leaning forward, intent, desperate, he says, “You cannot be—”

“She knows you well.” 

Thrown, Loki leans back. “Sif? I hardly—”

“No,” Frigga says. “Natasha.”

_Don’t presume to know what I feel._

_Don’t presume? I don’t have to presume. I know._

Frigga leans forward and lays her free hand on his cheek. “Sometimes,” she says, “you do see so much, but often you see nothing at all, especially if it concerns the good that you may do. You bestowed upon Natasha the rune. Sif knows this. And she witnessed you beginning to find a place on Midgard, with Natasha and her team. These affected her greatly. If you could conquer your fear and embrace change, if you could garner such love in the effort, then perhaps she could as well.” 

Loki stares at Frigga. A beat passes and then laughter begins to bubble within him, incredulous, a shade manic. He pulls away and begins to pace, overcome, waiting for the world to realign, but Frigga merely sits, watching him. “So now I’m the role model for lost Aesir?” he asks after another moment.

“If you wish,” Frigga says. “You can inspire, Loki, and you can guide. You have traveled paths of which others only dreamed, and you know now that destruction is not your only end, that you need only try.” She looks at him, the candor in her eyes urgent and overwhelming. “This is all he wants. For you to try. For you to want to try. You did with Natasha. Why not for Thor?”

_I’m not your brother. I never was._

Frigga shakes her head, frustration with him creeping into her eyes. “You always focused so on the differences. You should not for they led you to nothing.”

_Why are you doing this?_

_Because I know. When you’re there, in nothing, you think there’s no way out. So you run and you lie and you become convinced that you are nothing._

_But there is a way out._

“All you have now derives from you finding pieces of yourself in others and they doing the same for you,” Frigga says, standing now. “You did this with Natasha. With the Captain. Why do you resist this with Thor?”

_Brother, please—_

_I’m not your brother._

_Brother, please—_

_I never was._

_Brother, please do not shut me out._

Loki turns away. He stares at the candles, at the saint prostrate before the flames. Always, always Thor comes for him. Always, he tries. 

And always Loki runs.

“Because the similarities are so few,” he says. 

A beat passes, the silence endures, and then Loki hears Frigga approach. He tenses as she lays a hand on his shoulder, but the touch soothes, now as always, and he turns to her. She stares up at him, concern for him, love for him, in her gaze. “In the past, perhaps this may have been true,” she says, raising her hand once more to his face. “But no longer. To learn this, all you must do is try.” 

_I’m not your brother. I never was._

Has he ever tried to be? Perhaps in their youth, before jealousy consumed him, before motive and manipulation lay in every gesture and word, but never since. How does one be as brothers? Loki does not know, but, then, he didn’t know with Natasha either, and she accepted his offering. She accepted his declaration, his recompense.

Perhaps Thor will, too. Perhaps Frigga speaks truth. Perhaps Loki is capable of more than destruction. 

Perhaps he will not fail.

_The mistakes don’t mean you shouldn’t try._

“She counsels well.” 

Loki looks at Frigga, amusement quirking a brow. “Is this a similarity that you see in her?”

Frigga smiles. “One of a few.” She turns from him then and steps from the alcove. The weak sun shines upon her, brightening her face, her hair. “I grow weary,” she says. “I must return. Perhaps you will visit again before I depart for Asgard. Perhaps with Natasha.” At that, she glances at him and raises a brow.

Loki grins at the forthright nature of the appeal. “Perhaps,” he says, returning her gesture of the raised brow.

Frigga watches him another moment and then she lifts a hand in farewell; the air crackles, green light flashes, and she is gone. Loki turns back to the candles and the saint. He knows he should follow, he should return to Thor and begin to try, but he lingers, watching the flickering flames.

He hesitates.

_There’s everything for you here. You’re just too afraid to take it._

_I’m not afraid._

_Then prove it._

Gritting his teeth, Loki breathes in. He survived the Void. He survived the Hulk. He told Natasha he loved her, and he did not lie. Compared to these, a conversation with his brother should be easy. Of course, a conversation with his brother would focus on Natasha and Barton and Odin and possibly Sif and the mortal, too, since they would be on Thor’s mind and maybe a request of accompaniment for the return to Asgard, at least until Frigga is settled, until, perhaps, Thor becomes king, which would prompt, possibly, a chat about the last time that Thor almost become king and exactly why he did not and what, of course, occurred after that, leading back to Barton and Odin and Natasha: the endless, ceaseless, infinite, exhausting cycle. 

The thought makes Loki grimace. 

Alcohol, he thinks. They would need alcohol.

A lot of alcohol. 

*

Okay. Okay. 

No one died. Darcy focuses on this. No one died, though Clint shot at Loki and Loki choke-slammed Clint, but both of them survived. And, yeah, Loki vanished right after, and Thor looked like he wanted to punch a wall because of it, and no one had seen Clint or Natasha since, and the Captain had kind of glared at her as he retreated to his room to brood, but no one had died. So Darcy focuses on this because, if she doesn’t, she’ll focus on the possibility of Clint never speaking to her again because she had coerced him into confronting Loki with the possibility of sexual relations, or she’ll focus on the possibility of Thor never speaking to her again because she had coerced Clint into confronting Loki with the possibility of sexual relations and Clint had proceeded to shoot at Loki, aka Thor’s brother, or she’ll focus on the possibility of Natasha murdering her in her sleep because she had coerced Clint into confronting Loki with the possibility of sexual relations and Clint had proceeded to shoot at Loki, aka Natasha’s man, who then proceeded to choke-slam Clint, aka Natasha’s BFF, and Darcy doesn’t know what would piss Natasha off more: the shot at Loki or the choke-slam to Clint. Either way, pissing off is sure to occur, either with Clint or Thor or Natasha or the Captain, and one or all of them could revoke her acceptance as a member of S.H.I.E.L.D. for meddling in business that was not hers to meddle in and she would have to go back to Culver or, worse, home.

Darcy groans at the thought of home and lays her head on the table. In spite of her despair, life in the mess hall continues as usual, giving her time to pull a Captain and brood. If she went home, she would have to explain to her father _why_ she was home, and she was sure by now he knew where she was, and she did not want to have to explain to him how she could not even last as a member of S.H.I.E.L.D. for more than one week. 

As if he needed any further proof of her failure as a competent adult.

Darcy groans again, then a thunk beside her ear sends her shooting back in her chair. The mess hall comes into focus first, followed quickly Tony Stark sitting beside her, one brow arched in inquisitive pity, and then the bottle of beer he had dropped on the table beside her. She glances at Tony, who raises the bottle in his hand, and says, “I find copious amounts of alcohol help in times of distress. And by distress, I mean all of us potentially dying because of the Clint and Loki Share Time Power Hour that you engineered.”

Darcy groans for a third time and slumps down in her chair. “I didn’t think Clint would try to kill him. I just thought they would talk.”

At that, Tony raises his other brow. “You do know that Clint is an assassin, right? Killing people is how he usually solves his problems.”

Darcy narrows her eyes at the sarcasm. “Because killing Loki would have made everything _so_ much better. I’m sure Natasha would have loved her best assassin friend killing her boyfriend, and I’m sure Thor would have—”

“Wait. What? Best _assassin_ friend?”

“Whatever,” Darcy says, reaching for her beer. “The point remains. Killing Loki would have made everything worse, and not dealing with him had turned Clint into a giant spy-shaped teakettle that was about two seconds away from exploding because of all the Loki-shaped pressure. He needed to do _something_.”

For a moment, Tony does not respond. Then his mouth twitches as he says, “Teakettle?”

“Yes. Teakettle. All of you are superpowered teakettles, and you keep pushing all of your angst and all of your drama in until there is no minimum safe distance for the rest of us to reach when you inevitably explode.” 

Tony purses his lips as he considers her analogy. She opens her beer as he does and takes a drink, the ale cool and bitter and obviously, deliriously, expensive. After another few seconds, he says, “Okay, I’ll give you Clint and Loki being teakettles. They’re high-level nuts. But the rest of us. We’re low level. More superpowered espresso cups than teakettles.”

“Please,” Darcy says. “I saw you at the funeral. And I read the tabloids. And I talked to Pepper. You’re a teakettle.”

At the mention of Pepper, Tony leans back in his chair and throws one elbow over the top. “You talked to Pepper?” he asks, taking a drink of his beer.

Darcy nods.

“About me?”

“Not intentionally. She helped me wrap my brain around the serious damage that is Clint and Loki, and you came up in the middle.”

Tony blinks at the revelation. Brows drawing together, he says, “Pepper helped you deal with the walking catastrophes that are Clint and Loki by talking about me? I don’t know whether to be flattered or offended.”

Darcy considers for a moment, her face scrunched. Then she says, “Maybe a bit of both.”

“Why?” Tony asks. He narrows his eyes at her. “What’d she say?”

Darcy shrugs again. “That you used to be a narcissistic, self-destructive diva who was his own worst enemy. So, I guess, kind of Loki-ish, but without the murder and mind control.”

Again, Tony purses his lips as he digests her revelation, then he makes a face of acquiescence and takes another drink of his beer. 

“You seem better,” Darcy says, eyeing him.

This elicits a grin. “Pepper. And Captain Mother Hen.” 

Darcy raises a brow. “You call Captain American Captain Mother Hen?”

Tony nods. “He has this thing about open communication. Says it solves things or whatever.” At that, Tony shrugs, the notion of using your words as perplexing to him as advanced calculus was to Darcy. 

“Maybe to you, he is,” she says, “but he didn’t seem so Mother Hen-y when I tried to talk to him before.”

“Really?” Tony asks, arching a brow.

Darcy nods. “I think he kind of hates me. I mean, I know he was in the middle of a super intense conversation with Natasha when I came, but—”

“Wait,” Tony says, leaning forward now, his gaze on her intense. “Steve was talking to Natasha? When?”

“Before the Clint and Loki Super whatever you said it was.” 

“How did Natasha seem?”

Darcy shrugs. “I don’t know. Normal, I guess. Like the most stoic serial killer ever.” 

At her response, Tony leans back in his chair again. He lifts his bottle, but does not drink, staring instead beyond the rim, his gaze still intense. A beat passes and then he sets the bottle back down onto the table, and Darcy realizes that his gestures indicate concern.

“Is something wrong?” she asks. “Because I—”

“No,” Tony says, popping back into the present with a grin and a wave of his hand. “It’s nothing. Just superpowered teakettle explode-y stuff from the past. Speaking of,” he says, leaning forward once more and setting his elbows on the table to peer at her, “does your dad know you’re here?”

Darcy would like to say that she handled the extreme shift in topic with dignity and grace. She would like to say. Instead, the mention of her father causes her jaw to drop and snap shut and then drop again like she was a drowning fish. On the second snap shut, Tony grins, the grin of the proverbial cat that ate the canary, or who discovered that the canary’s father was Senator William Stern.

Submitting to the inevitable, Darcy sighs and finally, regrettably, begins to talk about her father. “No,” she says. “We don’t do well with the talking.” She glances at Tony then, a small smirk beginning to form on her face. “Which gives us something in common, I guess.”

Tony returns her impish grin. “I would say so. The good senator did tell me to go fuck myself on national television.”

“Technically, he just said fuck you. But you did call him an assclown, so I guess you’re even.”

“True,” Tony says, his eyes on her. As he stares, the intensity from before returns, indicating the start of an interrogation of epic proportions. Darcy restrains her second sigh and prepares herself for the onslaught. “So is that why you’re here?” he asks, beginning the inquisition. “To get even with him, too?”

“No.”

Tony raises a brow. “So you’re here to gain daddy’s approval?”

The sigh escapes despite Darcy’s best efforts to contain it. “No. And you can stop calling him daddy. I never did.”

“Are you sure you’re not here for approval?” Tony asks, relentless. “Your dad is the chairman of the armed services committee. You’ve just joined an armed service. It makes sense—”

“No, it doesn’t. My dad hates S.H.I.E.L.D.”

This pauses Tony, but only for a moment. “Why?”

Darcy gives him a look. It doesn’t take Tony long to catch on. “Me?” he asks.

“You and the Not-So-Jolly Green Giant and the people from outer space and the former Russian terminator, or whatever Natasha used to be. Dad hates that S.H.I.E.L.D. works with all of you. He thinks you’re too rogue or whatever.” 

“So you are here to piss him off?”

“No,” she snaps, her patience starting to slip. “But if I happen to do that, yay.” Tony opens his mouth to ask another question, but Darcy cuts him off. “Why are you giving me the third degree, dude?” 

Whatever lightheartedness lingering within Tony vanishes, and Darcy learns exactly what Pepper said to her before, that Tony cares, but she also learns what Pepper didn’t say, that Tony caring can be scary as absolute fuck. “I give you the third degree,” he says, “because Fury’s dead and Steve pissed off the Council that wants to rule the world, and your dad has been eyeing a seat there, so what better way for him to get it than to send his daughter into S.H.I.E.L.D. as a spy to undermine it and the team, too, since, as you said, he hates all of us and probably wants to lock us up for all eternity. Or kill us, if he gets a chance. Which he will if he gets his seat.”

For a moment, Darcy is speechless. Genuinely, thoroughly speechless. She relishes the sensation for that moment, the feeling so foreign to her, loquaciousness perhaps her only marketable skill, then she blinks at the mind-numbing vortex of spy-related paranoia. “Wow,” she says. “And here I thought you were going to say it’s because my dad’s a giant douche and you were worried I would be, too.”

A beat passes and then Tony starts to laugh, genuine laughter that creases his face and sends the scary intimidation back behind the snark. Darcy does not laugh, but she relaxes, a little. “I don’t know anything about a Council,” she says, “and I don’t know in what universe you think I’d be a spy, let alone a successful one. I’m here because I want to be.”

“Why?” 

The question lacks the intensity from before. Instead, curiosity underlies the syllable, the idea of Darcy wanting to join S.H.I.E.L.D. and help the team as inconceivable to Tony as the benefits of conversation. She tries not to take offense, his reaction the same as everyone who has taken one look at Darcy and assumed based on her lips, her hips, her boobs, or her snark. “I think I can help,” she says. “I mean, not with the punching and the spy games, but with—”

“—working through emotional bullshit,” Tony finishes, leaning back once more and grabbing his beer. “Like for Clint.”

Darcy nods. And then frowns. “No. No. Not like that.”

“Why not?” he asks, a slow grin spreading across his face. “How exactly did you convince Clint Barton, spy extraordinaire, to bare his soul to He Who Must Not Be Named?”

Darcy hesitates, and the grin widens. She feels a blush, an actual blush, creep up her neck at the thought of revealing to Tony Stark, to freaking Iron Man, the man who had saved the world, her coercion by way of potential sexual relations. Tony starts to cackle at the implication, and Darcy does as well, at least until she recalls how Clint and Natasha had vanished after the confrontation and all of the other possibilities that she had tried to repress before. The thoughts now make her close her eyes and sigh.

“If that’s how you sigh at the thought of sex with Barton,” Tony says, “then maybe—”

“No,” Darcy exclaims, opening her eyes in horror at both his comment and the volume at which he delivered it. She looks around to see if anyone heard, turning toward an unrepentant Tony when the coast seemed clear. “It’s not that, He Who Fails at Discretion. It’s just— I convinced him to talk to Loki. And the talk kind of sucked. And now he and Natasha have disappeared, so I—”

“The Wonder Twins?” Tony asks. He waves a hand. “They’re fine. They’re down in the training room blowing shit up. Kind of like the spy version of therapy.” He pauses a moment. A pout begins to form on his face as he says, “They stole my liquor, too, and didn’t even invite me. I love blowing shit up.” 

At the claim, Darcy remembers Pepper’s assertion of how no reason is dumb if it’s a genuine one, except for those that end with _It’s for science_. She wagers now that most of _It’s for science_ end with something blowing up in a lab somewhere. 

“Do you want to go?” he asks, pulling her back to the present.

Darcy blinks. “Go? Where?”

“To the training room. We could organize our own coup, liberate my liquor from the evil thieves. Maybe blow some stuff up, too.” 

Darcy hesitates. On the one hand, she’s never blown up anything more substantial than a marshmallow in her microwave, and it does sound like fun. On the other hand, despite Tony’s claim, Clint could still be pissed at her for pushing him to talk to Loki, and Darcy would rather avoid that reality for as long as possible. 

“I don’t know,” she says. “I’ve never blown anything up before.”

“Then that means you have to go,” Tony says, standing now. “It’s practically a rite of passage for all team members.”

His statement stills Darcy. She looks at him, and he returns her stare, brows raised in expectant amusement. “Is this the Tony Stark seal of approval?” she asks slowly. 

Tony nods, then pauses before saying, “Unless you happen to tell your dad that we’re going to be BFFs and you _don’t_ let me listen in on that phone call.”

Darcy laughs at that, the remaining tension from the questions, from the anxiety that her father would prevent her acceptance in this world she had stumbled into in New Mexico, vanishing. As she follows Tony from the cafeteria, she contemplates the particular shade of puce that her dad will turn when she does, in fact, reveal to him her new status as BFF to Tony Stark or confirms her status as a member of S.H.I.E.L.D. or that she will possibly, perhaps, maybe, hopefully, if fate and Natasha Romanov allow, start dating the most roguish of the rogues in the Avengers.

The thought makes Darcy smile.

*

The young woman bends over a small screen, her face pinched in concentration. She pushes a lock of hair back from her face and makes a notation on a paper beside her before returning her attention to the screen. For five minutes, Sif has watched her, but, in that time, Jane Foster has yet to look anywhere but the screen or the paper. Sif cannot help but admire the focus, such absorption something that she, too, has experienced, though in the heat of battle instead of in a laboratory. 

She stopped by the lab in her search for Thor, knowing he would wish to discuss Heimdall’s revelation about her decision to leave Asgard, but the sight before her had stilled her. Sif knows she should leave or go in. Such lurking does not befit a warrior from Asgard. Yet she does neither, continuing, instead, to observe, her curiosity about the woman who captured Thor’s heart too potent to resist. 

_How is he?_

_He misses her, the mortal._

After her mission to rescue Thor from his exile, Sif had tried to imagine this woman, this mortal who, in so short a time, in days only, hardly time for breath or thought, let alone for love to take root and grow, had elicited such a change within Thor, but she had possessed only the broadest of strokes for an image, Sif paying little attention to Jane during the mission, her focus on Thor and the Destroyer and Loki’s betrayal. Heimdall would have clarified the picture for her should she have asked, but Sif could not have asked. To ask would have been a betrayal, a deception fit for Loki, spying upon one for whom Thor cares. So Jane remained a silhouette, an echo of a memory half recalled.

The reality before her does not match the conception, Jane smaller and brighter and stiller than her counterpart, but then, Sif knows, reality never does. She had imagined a love with Thor for decades, the creations of her fancy burning hot within her, but she had not known how pallid those illusions had really been, not until Steve, still reeling from his journey through the Bifrost, had opened his eyes and looked at her. 

_Hi._

The intensity of his gaze at that moment still makes her breathless. Steve had seen her in a way that she thought only Heimdall or Loki, those with the ability to see beyond the material world, capable of achieving. But a man, a mortal, though more so than most, had seen her, and not the warrior, not the friend: Sif. 

He had seen Sif. 

The recognition shook her. Centuries by his side, and not once had Thor gazed upon her as Steve had done in that moment. When Thor saw her, he saw a friend. He saw a warrior. He saw an ally. He did not see Sif, and if he had not by then, she realized, he never would. Not now. Not with Jane.

_How is he?_

_He misses her._

The knowledge stung, but less than Sif anticipated. More for pride than for jealousy, the reality of Steve dimming the specters of her mind until they lingered as no more than a semblance of a shadow. How could Sif grieve a dream? She could not, she would not, but still, she desires to know. So she watches and hopes to divine what about Jane drew Thor to her. Does she own a quality that Thor prizes but Sif lacks? Is she kinder? Warmer? More intelligent? She could not be braver or more loyal than Sif, but perhaps his regard for her derives from a source more elusive than one’s attributes, something biological, something circumstantial. 

At that, Sif sighs. She never possessed much patience for or skill with the ethereal realm, not as Heimdall does and has. If the answer lies there, then the mystery will endure, at least until she is able to speak with her brother once more. For she cannot speak to Thor about this. The thought churns her stomach. And she will not speak to Frigga; she will not bother the Queen with such a trifle as her curiosity about love. Steve would discuss this with her, she knows, but she does not want the ghosts of her past to taint her present with him. And though Loki understands the world beyond the world more than she or Thor or Steve, though he now knows love with Natasha, there exists too much strife between them, too many ill words exchanged, especially concerning Thor, for such a conversation ever to occur.

With a final look at Jane, Sif turns from the window, from the mystery, and walks down the hall to the elevator. She stops when the doors open and Thor steps out. Within moments, she detects his agitation, a frown darkening his brow, his right hand clenched into a fist. If recklessness imbued his character as much now as in the past, he would call for Mjolnir and release the tension inside of him with destruction, but instead, he paces the hall before Sif. She leans against the wall and waits for the rant to begin, the rant that could only derive from one source, from one soul in all the nine realms with the ability to so agitate and frustrate and incapacitate Thor.

Loki.

“I try,” Thor says after another moment. “I try to wait when I am counseled to wait. I try to talk when I am counseled to talk. I try to understand what motivates his choices. Always I try, and what does he do? He passes me by as if my words mean no more to him than those of a Dwarf. And then he vanishes. He leaves. Again.” At that, Thor shakes his head. Sif contemplates speaking, though she doubts her ability to defend Loki or to calm Thor, Loki the only one with the skill to engender any sort of peace within Thor when he descended into a rage, but before she can finish her contemplation, Thor turns to her and says, “Do you know that he has yet to sit with Frigga though she died for him? And that rather than finding fault with Loki for his absence, Frigga counsels patience?” This elicits another shake of his head. “Always patience. Always we must be patient with him, yet does he demonstrate such patience with us? If we disappoint, does he understand why? No. Instead he lays siege to a world. If we falter, does he forgive? No. Instead he demands we cross the stars in recompense and—”

But Thor never finishes the thought for, in that moment, the air crackles, green light flashes, and Loki appears. He looks at Thor, a mixture of a grimace and a grin on his face. Thor turns to him and glares, and the grin subsides until only the grimace remains. Loki opens his mouth to speak, but then he catches sight of Sif and pauses. His gaze flits from her to Thor, and she watches as the gleam of calculation appears in his eyes, as the grin returns, and she has just enough time to narrow her eyes before the air crackles again, before green light flashes, and they teleport from the Carrier.

They appear at the outskirts of a small Midgardian town. To her left lies a large lake, flushed in the setting of the sun. To her right, Sif sees the edge of a darkening forest. She looks at Loki, who stares at her, waiting, the detached amusement that so infuriated her in their youth now on his face. 

“Return me,” she says, taking a step toward him.

Her demand elicits another infuriating grin. “And deny you the opportunity to—”

But he never finishes for, in that moment, Thor steps between them, mere inches from Loki, no trace of mirth in his eyes. “I am in no mood for your games,” he says. “You have made puppets of us for too long, your whims determining when we speak and when we act. Return Sif as she desires. The worlds do not revolve around you—”

“Which is why Sif must remain,” Loki says, his eyes on Thor, refusing to relent. “She desires to speak with you, and she will need my presence in order to do so.” 

This pauses Thor. And Sif. She stares at Loki, who glances at her and raises a brow, and it is then that she knows that he knows, he knows of her determination to leave Asgard, but more than this, he knows of her motivation, he knows why. 

_He never spoke much of Asgard. He only said that nothing seems to change here. Was he wrong?_

_No._

_Is that why you want to leave?_

Of course he knows. Who else endured the doubt, the resistance to acceptance, more than he? 

Restraining her sigh, Sif closes the distance between her and Thor and says, “He speaks truth.” She glances at Loki and raises a brow. “For once.” At that, Loki smirks, but the smirk vanishes when she continues. “Of course, the truth also provides a convenient excuse to delay conversing with you.”

“If I desired a delay,” Loki asks, a tight smile on his face, “why would I have returned?”

Sif shrugs. “Because a return was convenient for you.” 

For a moment, Loki does not respond. He stares at Sif, the only visible emotion the tightness in his jaw. She cannot consider the possibility that she wounded him with her words, but the idea lingers in her mind as he looks at Thor, who returns his gaze, his face impassive. Another beat passes and then Loki says, glancing again at her, “Believe what you will. You always have.” He turns from them then and starts for the town.

From beside her, Sif sees Thor close his eyes and sigh. She knows from the sigh that concern for Loki has already begun to displace the frustration within him. “Where are you going?” he asks Loki, sighing again.

Something in his tone compels Loki to stop. As he turns back around, Thor opens his eyes. They stare at each other, silent, communicating beyond words, beyond Sif. His eyes cut to her and then away and then he says, “I go for a drink. I crossed the tavern here in my travels. I thought…” He stops, looks away, the remainder of the thought unappealing or too revealing.

“You thought what?” Thor asks, all rancor gone.

Loki grits his teeth. Irritation crosses his face, or possibly nausea, Sif cannot tell. He looks back at Thor, swallows once, and then says, the words tumbling from him as though possessed by a will of their own, “I thought you would find the ale agreeable. It… reminded me, it reminds me. Of Asgard.”

Sif stills at the revelation. She peers at Thor, who stares at Loki, who shifts in place, waiting. A beat passes and then a smile breaks upon Thor’s face, such as Sif has not seen since before Loki ascended to the throne. “Ale sounds most agreeable,” he says. At that, Loki quirks a brow, but Sif sees him release a slow breath as Thor turns to her. “What say you, Sif, to ale?”

What say she? 

She looks at Loki.

_Such faith in Loki despite all that he has done. Do you truly believe that he can be more?_

What say she?

_It is as you said. We on Asgard are resistant to change. That does not mean that we can’t._

Loki looks at her. Long ago, they had been friends, both she and he yearning for acceptance by Thor, by Asgard, by anyone. He understood her then, and she thought she had understood him in return, until she hadn’t. Could they restore such a state? Or would the weight of their sins, toward others and toward each other, sink any attempt at reconciliation? 

_Believe what you will. You always have._

_You fear the future. You shouldn’t._

What say she?

“Only if food accompanies,” she says, arching a brow at Loki.

He regards her a moment, his gaze inscrutable, and then he nods. Sif nods in return, her curiosity about him, about the extent of his change and the regret for his past, too potent to resist. She feels Thor clap a hand on her shoulder, and she follows him toward Loki and the town, to the past and, she hopes, to the future. 

*


	38. Shake It Out, Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whichever entity controls the universe, be it God, fate, or Bill Gates and his billions of dollars, they either love Darcy right now or they hate her. They must love her to place such a view as this before her, Clint alone in the training room, his bow in his hands, his shirt tight and soaked so much with sweat that she can see in great and glorious detail the physical benefits of being a badass spy.

The tavern is small, but the ale is excellent, and Thor feels contentment settle upon him for the first time since Loki fell. He closes his eyes and relaxes against the chair, focusing on the cool stein in his hand and the warm fire at his back, on the murmur of conversation from the other patrons and the moan of the wind beyond the window. His father would have appreciated such a place; Thor wonders if this is why Loki brought him here.

He opens his eyes now to find Sif and Loki engaged in a fierce, yet silent, exchange. Loki raises a brow, to which Sif shakes her head, prompting Loki to roll his eyes. This elicits another scowl from Sif and a corresponding smirk from Loki. They stare at each other a moment, and then Loki begins tapping one finger against his glass. Sif straightens in her chair, resolute. At that, Loki narrows his eyes, Sif arches a brow, and Thor begins to laugh, catching the other two by surprise.

“It is comforting to know,” he says, “that some things never change.” He laughs again as they scowl at him. Even this is familiar, the friction between Loki and Sif. When they first met, they needled each other as friends. As time elapsed, a darker shade tinged their interactions until the squabbling became fighting, tempestuous storms of words that only Thor could abate. Neither revealed the cause for the dissolution of their friendship, though Thor attributes most of that now to the overall turn in Loki, to his growing discontent toward Thor and the realm in total. Perhaps now he and Sif could reconcile, especially since both intended to remain on Midgard rather than return home.

The thought tempers the joy within Thor. He knows that Frigga suggested opening the borders of Asgard more, but he cannot harness the power of the Bifrost to satisfy every desire to see them or Jane or the team. As king, his focus must be on Asgard, not on himself. At the thought, Thor sighs and raises his glass to take another drink of ale. “I will miss this,” he says upon finishing.

Loki and Sif glance at each other again. Another silent battle occurs, ceasing when Loki slumps back in his chair and waves a hand at Thor. At that, Sif turns to Thor and says, “This is what I desired to speak to you about, why I have chosen to leave the realm.”

“Sif, you owe me no explanation.”

From the corners of his eyes, Thor sees Loki shake his head. “You disagree,” he says, turning to his brother.

“When doesn’t he?” Sif asks.

Ignoring Sif, or attempting to, a scowl still darkening his face, Loki says to Thor, “She may not owe an explanation, but you cannot pretend that you lack any curiosity as to why she intends to leave Asgard.”

“Loki,” he says, placing his stein on the table, “I already know of the Captain, and I—”

“I do not leave the realm for Steve.”

Thor turns to Sif, surprised at the revelation. She glances at Loki and then says to him, “At least not in total.”

“Then why?” he asks.

Sif hesitates. She looks again at Loki, but rather than scowling at his presence for such a private conversation, she contemplates him, her gaze pensive. Thor turns to his brother, expecting Loki to chafe under the perusal, but, again, his brother defies expectations, holding her gaze, no mischief or malice marring his face. After a moment, Sif draws in a breath and then, as of a decision being made, says to Thor, “Do you recall when you asked that I explain Loki’s time on Midgard to the Warriors?”

Thor nods.

“No matter my explanations,” she says, “they would not believe me.”

Loki leans forward in his chair now, a faint smirk on his face. “I imagine that had more to do with me than with you.” 

Thor looks at Sif. “I agree.”

“That is my point,” Sif says, her hand tensing around her stein. “They did not believe me. Even when you and Steve confirmed my claims, even when they saw the determination within Natasha to convince Odin to grant her request, they still doubted. Yet _here_ they believe.”

At that, Loki shakes his head. “You stretch their faith.”

Sif turns to Loki and raises a brow. “Do I? Did we not recently journey to Asgard, defy Odin, _and_ fight the Destroyer all on their belief that you had changed, despite your theft of the spear and your request for the Casket?”

“That was Natasha,” Loki clarifies, “not the team.”

“It was Steve as much as Natasha,” Sif counters. “And did not Tony Stark offer you residence in the belief that you changed? Or that you had the ability to do so?”

“There was no other option,” Loki says, on edge now from her interrogation. “Hardly evidence for your claims.”

Sif leans forward, insistent, determined. “Did they not extend to you a place on their team?” she asks. Loki looks away at the question, his jaw clenched, but Sif refuses to relent. “Did you or did you not have a seat at the table during their deliberation concerning the mystic Doom?”

Eyes cutting back to her, Loki snaps, “Presence is not the same as acceptance.”

A beat passes. They stare at one another, silent. Thor watches them, captivated by the glimpse into their world, the two always so private and so difficult to discern. After another moment, the fight fades from Sif, and she leans back in her chair. “I know,” she says. “I know it is not.”

Thor glances at Loki. He peers at Sif through narrowed eyes. “Is this an apology?” he asks.

Sif smirks at that. “Hardly. You know I had cause.”

Loki raises a brow. “As did I.” 

Sif does not respond, she merely looks at Loki; then she shrugs and says, “Perhaps,” reaching for her stein. 

Silence descends then. Sif drinks from her ale as Loki eats another Brie point. Thor shifts in his chair, unaccustomed to being ignored by either of them, let alone both at the same time. He looks from one to the other and considers whether to renew the discourse concerning Sif’s decision to forsake Asgard, yet Thor knows that he had only just avoided an argument between the two, and he does not want to spoil the otherwise fine evening with a quarrel. So he leans back in his chair, takes another drink from his stein, and then does what he knows neither of them, especially Loki, expect him to do.

He thinks.

Loki claimed that Sif would need him to explain her desire to leave the realm. Did he mean only as an example, as a way by which to explain her unique motivations, or did Loki intend to imply a similarity in motive between them? For both, Thor had assumed that they chose to leave for the one they loved, Natasha and the Captain, yet both claimed additional motives. 

_I did not accept for Natasha. Not solely for her._

_Then why?_

_You are not foe, but I cannot return to Asgard. So there is here._

Thor understood why Loki hesitated to return to Asgard, his history with the realm tainted, as he said, with lies and manipulations on both sides. But the same does not apply for Sif. She lived as a warrior, respected by all for her skill and integrity, yet— 

_No matter my explanations, they would not believe me._

—she spoke of doubt. The Warriors doubted her explanation concerning Loki. Thor knows they struggled to believe; they questioned him separately and together during the feast in the palace. Thor assumed their doubt generated from the subject of the tale rather than the teller, but perhaps not. Thor knows she had experienced doubt prior to this. The realm resisted her becoming a warrior, the traditional path for women lying instead in domestic duties, but she had changed perception with her efforts. Asgard now accepted her as a warrior.

_Presence is not the same as acceptance._

_I know it is not._

Thor looks at Sif. Is this the reason? Do they include her only? Do they not accept her? He feels that they have, that they do accept her, but he knows flaws mar his perception. He never saw his own arrogance, he never saw the lies within Loki, not until Odin banished him to Midgard. Even after, he still failed to see the truth of Loki; he needed Natasha to help illuminate the reason why Loki stole the spear and demanded the Casket. Could the same apply to Sif? Has Thor failed to see?

_Yet here they believe._

Here, they believe. In Asgard, they doubt. Here, they accept. In Asgard, they resist. Here, there is change, for Thor and for Loki. Only here did they grow, Thor discovering more than arrogance within him and Loki discovering more than hate. Sif lacks those deficiencies, but perhaps she still desires the opportunity to grow. Perhaps she desires opportunity, and what opportunity exists in a realm so isolated, so resistant to change?

_In truth, I believe we should open the borders of Asgard more._

_Perhaps if we had…_

Perhaps if they had, Asgard could have progressed past dissension with the Frost Giants, and Loki would not hate himself or the realm. Perhaps if they had, Asgard would accept women as more than wives and mothers or bakers and tailors, and Sif would not feel discontented. Perhaps if they had…

Thor shakes his head. Perhaps means nothing. He cannot revise the past, but he can change the future. He can lead Asgard to change, change that may lure Sif and Loki back to the realm, that may allow for Jane and the Captain and Natasha to follow if they desire. But for such change to occur, he needs them. 

He needs Sif and Loki.

Thor turns to his brother. Loki reclines in his chair, bored, casting various illusions on the table before him. Leaning forward, he catches Loki’s eye and says, “How did you pass from realm to realm before?”

“What?”

“Before you fell, you were able to pass from Asgard to other realms without the Bifrost. How did you do this? Teleportation? Or by some other means?”

Loki stares at him, silent, the silence, Thor knows, indicative of his surprise. If the necessity for response, for willing honesty from Loki, were not so great, Thor would commend himself on the accomplishment, so rarely done in the past. Instead, he smoothes any emotion from his face and waits, hoping to engage Loki’s curiosity.

After a moment, Loki waves a hand, vanishing the illusion. He straightens in his chair, his gaze still on Thor. “Why?”

“Frigga believes we should open the borders of Asgard, especially to Midgard, and I agree.”

At that, Loki narrows his eyes. “Why?” he asks again.

“Because I believe Asgard would benefit,” Thor says, his patience cracking beneath the ceaseless resistance. Always, always Thor appeals to him, and always Loki resists. Pausing, he draws in a breath, striving for calm. Exhaling slowly, he looks at Loki and says, “Isolation has generated only stagnancy for the realm. We believe difference will diminish Asgard, so we resist change, yet each of us knows the boon that derives from such change, our time on Midgard as proof. I desire to bring the same to the realm, but I need your help to do so. Both of you,” he says now, glancing at Sif.

Sif stares at him, the same intensity in her eyes as before when she questioned Loki about his ties to the team. Thor waits for her to respond to his declarations, but she does not. Her gaze shifts to Loki instead. Thor turns and finds his brother watching him, one brow arched in derisive pity.

“You desire to bring change?” he asks. “To Asgard, the realm eternal.” 

“Yes.”

A second of silence occurs and then Loki begins to laugh.

Irritation flares within Thor at the laughter. “You doubt I can?” he asks, folding his arms across his chest.

Loki looks at him, his laughter subsiding into a sigh. “ _This_ is what you acquire from the past hour?” he asks. “A foolish desire to change what cannot be changed—”

“And this is what you acquire?” Thor asks, refusing to relent. “Projecting the same doubt that has been bestowed upon you back upon the realm? Upon me?”

Loki shakes his head, not in response, but in exasperation. He looks away, his jaw clenching, and Thor breathes in, once, twice, striving, still, for calm. Sif shifts in her chair, and Thor turns, finds her focused once more on Loki, who meets her gaze. Something passes between them, and again Loki shakes his head before returning his attention to Thor. He watches and Thor waits and then Loki says, his voice low, taut, “I do not doubt you. You are not Asgard.”

The claim stills Thor, the sentiment, so long sought, overwhelming. In the past, Loki had readily declared his love for Thor, but most of those had been manipulations, designed to elicit loyalty or sympathy or agreement within Thor. This, though, awkward, relayed to him through glares and gritted teeth, speaks truth. 

_You are my brother, but what am I to you? Am I brother? Am I foe?_

_You are… Thor._

This Thor knows.

_You are not foe, but I cannot return to Asgard. So there is here._

This he sees.

Resisting the urge to stand and embrace Loki, Thor leans forward instead and places a hand on his brother’s arm. Loki watches him, wary. The wariness pauses Thor, as do the consequences that may result if he persists, the dissolution of the bond they have just begun to form. But Thor believes in Asgard as he believes in Loki, and he will not choose. 

He will save them both. 

“I am to be King,” he says, his voice quiet, his eyes on Loki. “If I am not Asgard, who is?”

Silence, and then Loki tenses. He begins to pull away, but Thor holds fast, provoking another glare. “Loki… Brother—”

“Don’t,” Loki says, shaking his head.

_Brother, please—_

“Don’t,” he says again.

_—please do not shut me out._

Thor doesn’t continue, but he doesn’t relent either. Loki stares at him, and Thor sees the same yearning and fear, the same desire and doubt, as he has within Loki since his brother fell. “We can succeed,” he says now. “I believe we can. Together.”

_It’s too late. It’s too late to stop it._

_No. We can. Together._

Always, always, Thor appeals, and always Loki denies. Always he resists. Always he runs.

Shaking his head, Loki turns away. His lips twist, the smirk sharp and bitter. Gaze fixed on the window, on the fall of the snow beyond, he says, “Before I found you, I was with Frigga. She questioned why I resisted conversing with you. I claimed the difference between us too great, yet she avowed similarities, held I need only try to discover them.” His eyes cut now to Thor. “She spoke truth. You excel at manipulation, _brother_.”

At that, Loki pulls his hand away and pushes up from his chair. Thor reaches for him, stilling at the scowl he receives. “Loki—”

“I will try to open a bridge for you, though the distance may be too far. But you are a fool if you believe that Asgard will ever change.”

He waves a hand over the table, dropping a few coins beside his stein, before striding for the door. As the door slams shut behind him, Thor closes his eyes and leans his head in his hands. The charge of manipulation rings in his ears. He had not intended to manipulate, merely to ask, to persuade. He desires to help. How could Loki or Sif live in peace if they felt dissociated from their home? How could Asgard stay the course if the course fostered discrimination, dissension?

Sighing, Thor lifts his head. Sif remains at the table, her eyes on him. He cannot read her expression, how she views his desire to advance Asgard, his need for her aid. Thor turns to her, but before he can speak, she rises and says, “We should follow. If we linger, he may leave us.”

Thor hesitates, but then he nods. He pushed Loki; he cannot push Sif. She knows his intent; if she agrees, she will inform him. 

If not, Thor will try alone.

*

Whichever entity controls the universe, be it God, fate, or Bill Gates and his billions of dollars, they either love Darcy right now or they hate her. They must love her to place such a view as this before her, Clint alone in the training room, his bow in his hands, his shirt tight and soaked so much with sweat that she can see in great and glorious detail the physical benefits of being a badass spy. But they must hate her, too, placing such a view as this before her because only a few hours have passed since his talk with Loki, and, really, how much progress could Clint have made with working through his issues in so short a span of time? Darcy had declared just the day before that she would not see Clint until he worked through his issues, so if she can’t go into the training room right now and start to see him, then all she can do is stand at the door and see him, and given the shirt and the bow and the muscles and the intense, and so very hot, concentration on his face, seeing him without being able to see him amounts to nothing less than torture and thus proof that the entity in control of the universe hates her.

Clint reaches back and plucks another arrow from his quiver, loading his bow and firing in one movement so smooth and sleek that Darcy bites her lip to keep from moaning. She hears Tony laugh beside her. She knows that he laughs at her, at the expression that must be on her face. Turning to him, she starts to glare, but she stops when she catches the wicked gleam in his eyes. 

“Since Natasha seems to have left,” he says, “and the explosions seem to have stopped, I feel it’s time we moved on to Plan B.”

“Plan—”

“—B,” he says, slamming a hand against the controls to open the door. As it does, Tony steps behind her and Clint starts to turn, but before Darcy can step aside or duck or do anything with poise and grace, Tony shoves her into the room. Yelping, she stumbles inside, twisting back around in time to see Tony hit the controls again. The door slides shut between them. Through the window, Tony gives her a jaunty thumbs up, which causes Darcy to glare, which causes Tony to grin before he shoves his hands in his pockets and saunters away. She thinks he whistles.

In the training room, a moment of silence passes. Darcy knows Clint watches her, probably one brow cocked in amusement, perhaps his amusement tinged with confusion at the pushing from Tony and the jaunty thumbs up. Or, despite Tony’s assurance to the contrary, Clint readies his bow for fierce revenge against her, driven into insanity by excessive Loki angst. Darcy tilts her head and tries to find him in the reflection of the window, and this is when Clint starts to laugh. 

Turning, Darcy finds him watching her, thankfully with no trace of vengeance in his eyes. Just amusement that brightens his face and sends her nerves fluttering. Even now, just a few hours after Loki, he seems lighter, grounded more in the present instead of lost in the past. The tension inside of her eases at the sight.

Clint points now to the door and says, “Please tell me there’s an explanation for why Stark just shoved you into the room.”

“There is,” she says, easing away from the door. She strives for a casual stroll, but utterly fails, too distracted by Clint, by the temptation before her. She should wait, she knows, Clint probably still in love with Natasha, but he had tried, he had found Loki and spoke with him, and, yeah, he had shot at him, too, but still he tried. At her encouragement. And possibly for her, too.

_This is why I stay by the door. I’m not going to be your distraction._

_That’s not why I’m here._

Clint slides the quiver off his back, places it on the floor by his feet. “Are you going to tell me?” he asks, tracking her progress across the room. 

“It depends,” she says. Darcy stops before the punching bag, about ten feet from Clint. She watches as he collapses his bow and stores it in his quiver, the muscles in his back tensing as he leans over. She blinks and turns away, plucking at a loose strand on the bag as she breathes in. She should wait, she knows, for her and fir him, but since when had Darcy ever waited? She mastered the art of sliding open the gift-wrapping on her birthday and Christmas presents without leaving any evidence of her snooping when she was five years old. She never waits.

Clint straightens. He looks at her, his eyes bright. “It depends?”

She nods.

“On what?”

And she intended to say it depended on whether or not he explained to her why he fought with a bow. Because she intended to wait. Waiting was a sign of maturity, as was joining S.H.I.E.L.D., and Darcy intended to be mature. But as she looks at him, she remembers the escape from Doom in Galisteo, how she looked at Clint in the rearview mirror, panic seizing hold of her as she drove them away, and how he held her gaze, his expression calm as he told her not to worry, and she knows that the mistakes they may make from not waiting will be honest ones, Clint a good man and Darcy, Darcy already half in love with him. So, rather than saying it depended on whether or not he explained to her why he fought with a bow, Darcy says instead, pushing away from the punching bag and closing the distance between them, “On whether or not you ask me out.”

She stops before him, her face cool, but her heart pounding. Clint looks at her, the amusement in his eyes giving way to the same lust she saw in them the day before as he leaned against her door. “I had planned on taking a shower first,” he says, lips quirking now into a grin. “But yes, I was going to ask you out. Even though we can’t really go anywhere right now.”

“I don’t care,” she says. “It just gives me an excuse.”

“An—”

She doesn’t let him finish, swooping in instead and kissing him. If Jane, super responsible and entirely too mature Jane, can make out with Thor after knowing him just a couple of days, then Darcy can totally make out with Clint. She leans into him, and he shifts to bear her weight, his hands falling onto her waist. The feel of his fingertips, rough and strong, through her shirt makes her dizzy. She wraps an arm around his neck, parts her lips, and deepens the kiss, and he groans into her mouth, pulls her flush against him. The same concentration that she saw as he shot the arrow she feels now in the kiss, and her nerves burn at the thought of this intensity naked in a bed with her.

The need for oxygen causes Darcy to break away. Clint leans his forehead against hers, his breathing as ragged as her own, and she rubs her thumb against the back of his neck, enamored by the feel of the muscles there. His hands tighten on her waist, and she considers for a moment, just a moment, dragging him back to her room and making that thought about his intensity in a bed with her a reality, but for that, at least, she will wait until his entanglement with Loki and Natasha loosens a bit more. 

Until he feels about her the same as she feels about him.

Pulling back, she glances over her shoulder at the door and says, “Since there’s a seventy-five percent chance that Tony is on his way back here right now to catch us doing exactly this so that he can torment us for the rest of our lives, why don’t we get out of here?” Darcy turns back to Clint. “You can take a shower and I can grab some food, and we can get to know each other better.”

Clint smirks at that and Darcy smacks him on the arm. “As in conversation, Barton. You at least need to buy me dinner first for the other.”

“One dinner? Darcy, I’ll buy you six if you keep kissing me like this.”

“Six?” she says, trying, but failing, to keep the grin off her face. “Big spender.”

Darcy expects a quip, a continuation of the banter at which, she feels, they both excel, yet Clint surprises her now as he did the day before, the lightness in his eyes descending, deepening into something heavier, not grief or guilt this time, but something, she hopes, that could become love. “I got a feeling you’re worth it,” he says, stepping back from her and grabbing his quiver. He holds her gaze a moment and then turns for the rear door. “I’ll see you in thirty,” he says, and Darcy has to remind herself to breathe as she watches him go. 

*

_I had a friend back then._

_I was twelve the first time I saw him._

_His name was James, but everybody called him Bucky._

_He must have returned from a mission._

_I would have given anything to be like him._

_I didn’t see him again until I was fourteen._

_I even signed up to be a Stark science experiment in order to be more like him._

_Then it was because I had chosen him._

_And the funny thing is, the science experiment worked._

_He loved me._

_People respected me like they did him._

_I knew how he felt about me._

_But then he died._

_I should never have chosen him._

_They must have seen something in him._

_I don’t know what’s happened to him._

_I thought you were dead._

_I left him there, Steve._

_I didn’t go back._

_You’re my family._

_I’m a soldier._

_You’re my friend._

_He was trying to help me, and he died. And I would give anything right now for him to be alive. He was the closest thing to a family that I had. I would give up all of this, the power, the suit, everything for Bucky to be alive again. I’d go back to being the small guy that no one sees in a heartbeat. Because the power, all of it, none of it matters if you’re alone, if no one knows who you really are._

_And no one knows you like family._

Steve will find Bucky and save him. Natasha will help because Steve will ask her for help. He knows that he shouldn’t, this portion of her past painful, but he will anyway because Bucky died because of him and Winter stayed because of her, and this is why she will say yes. Bucky cared about Steve and Winter loves Natasha, and together, they will save him because Bucky is Winter and Winter is Bucky.

_Don’t worry._

_As first times go, it could have been worse._

Steve pushes up from the couch, discomfort rising in him at the memory. He had already asked Natasha for help that morning, and she had obliged. She had told him of her history with Bucky. She had stood here, in his quarters, right before him, and cried. She had looked at Steve, and she had cried.

How can he ask her again for help? 

He can’t. He won’t. 

He’ll find Bucky on his own.

_What matters is that you’re doing it alone, and you don’t have to. We—_

_We? What we, Rogers? You mean the we that’s been scattered across the world and half the damn galaxy?_

But he can’t. Steve can’t leave the team. Not now. Not when the team has finally started putting itself back together again. Steve can’t break everyone apart now, he can’t ask some to pursue Bucky and some to pursue Doom, not when Doom incapacitated Clint and injured Tony, not when he threatened Asgard and vowed vengeance against Natasha. 

Not when he killed Fury.

Steve can’t ask, so he won’t. He’ll wait until after to find Bucky.

But—

_You’re my family._

_I’m a soldier._

_You’re my friend._

Steve closes his eyes. But he can’t wait. He vowed to wait before, but that was before he knew, before Natasha indicated the kind of life that Bucky endured and still endures in the Red Room. 

_I remember him looking at me. I had blood on my clothes, my arms. I still had my knife in my hands._

_He didn’t look proud as so many of the others did._

_He looked sad._

Steve opens his eyes and wanders the room, restless, aimless, torn. He stops by the drawing of he and Bucky and the Commandos, pauses before the tablet with the files about Doom, looks at his shield, looks away, and then continues on. As he pivots for another revolution, the door behind him opens, and Steve turns to find Sif striding into the room. He feels a smile form at the sight of her, the memory of their kiss the day before surfacing and brightening the shadows within him, but then he sees the scowl on her face and the smile fades. “What’s wrong?” he asks, moving toward her. 

Sif closes the door and shakes her head. Her hands clench into fists as she says, “Thor is wrong. He is wrong, and he is not wrong, and this is why he is wrong.”

Steve blinks at that. He watches as Sif wanders the room, stopping by his shield, pausing before the couch, as restless and aimless as he, and this unsettles him even more, Sif normally as sure and certain as the sun. After a moment, he steps in front of her, blocking her path around the room. “Why is he wrong?” he asks. “Or not wrong?” 

“Because he desires to bring change to Asgard.”

Steve raises a brow. “And this makes him wrong? Or not wrong?”

“Yes.”

Sif looks at him as though this clarifies. Steve looks at her and tries to understand. He wants to understand. He knows that he should, Sif his girlfriend, if one could call an ageless warrior from an eternal alien planet something as trite as a girlfriend, but he doesn’t understand, and this perplexes Steve even more because he expects obfuscation from Tony, the man twisting the English language into a contortion of scientific syllables and pop culture references designed specifically to confuse Steve, but Sif speaks as she lives, direct, forthright, sincere. 

Except now.

“Why is Thor wrong?” he asks again. “Or not wrong? Or both?” 

“Because he desires to bring change to Asgard,” Sif says again, and Steve almost sighs, but she continues this time, thankfully clarifying. “And he should because aspects of the realm demand change. But he desires to bring change now when it is most convenient for him, but now is not most convenient for me, yet he has asked for my aid, and I feel duty bound to assist him as he will be king and I have desired more than anyone else change for the realm.”

Steve nods, comprehension settling in, but then he squirms as comprehension settles in because Sif helping Thor change Asgard means that Sif would have to return to Asgard and if Steve can’t leave the team for Bucky, then he can’t leave the team for Sif. “So,” he says, glancing down at his hands, “you’re going to help Thor?”

“No.”

Steve looks at her. “So you’re not going to help him?”

“No.”

“Um—”

“I will help Asgard,” she says. 

Steve nods again, certain that the distinction is a distinction though he cannot see it because he is a man or a mortal or just Steve. “So when do you return?” he asks, trying to keep his face calm at the thought of her departure because duty and responsibility he understands, though he dislikes both at the moment. 

Sif narrows her eyes at him. “Return? Where?”

“To Asgard. You said you were going to help. I thought—”

“I will help. But not by returning.” 

Steve pauses a moment and breathes in. He wonders if destiny demands that he have confusing, Who’s on First type conversations with all Asgardians, first with Loki, then the Warriors, and now with Sif. Looking at Sif, he exhales slowly and prepares for her response because he can’t not ask. He has to ask. 

He has to know.

“How will you help?” he asks.

“I will kill Doom,” she says.

At first, the words don’t register, the declaration too forthright in a conversation so clouded by ambiguity. When they do register, Steve straightens, his gaze fixed on Sif, remembering how Doom tortured Natasha and injured Clint and hurt Tony and killed Fury and vowed to destroy an entire world simply out of spite for Loki. “Why?”

“Because if he destroys Asgard as he vows,” she says, lifting her chin in the air, detecting, he knows, his apprehension toward her intention, “there will be no realm to change. And you said he vowed to return here after he destroyed the realm in order to kill Natasha. If this occurs, Loki will not build a bridge between Asgard and Midgard as Thor requested for him to do, and this he must do because I am not choosing, Steve. I will bring equality to Asgard and I will also pursue the path that I have chosen here, and Thor and anyone else who dares demand from me a choice can damn themselves to an eternity mating with Bilgesnipes for daring to do so.”

Silence, and then Steve feels a corner of his mouth twitch in amusement. “Bilgesnipes?” he asks. 

“Yes,” she says, the beginnings of a smile on her face. “Bilgesnipes.”

“That sounds… unpleasant.”

Sif nods. “It is. Immensely. Simply for the size alone. But they also have scales. And antlers.” 

“I guess it’s a good thing that I don’t want you to choose,” he says, grinning now.

Steve waits, but Sif does not return his smile. Not yet, at least. Instead, she gazes at him, and the nascent mirth in her eyes becomes pensive reflection. He remembers New York and their trip to Battery Park, the intensity of her stare as they conversed and his desire to understand what she thought and how she felt, especially about him. The same desire seizes him now. He watches as she looks away, as she glances down, as she smiles, and the sight captivates him, the smile, the emotion conveyed, delicate but not uncertain. “I know you do not,” she says as she looks at him again. “If you did, I would not desire to stay as I do.”

Sif holds his gaze. Steve blinks and then swallows and then peers at the room, at the door leading to the bedroom. “Stay?” he asks. “Here? Tonight?” His brain short-circuits at the thought of her in a bed with him.

More silence, and then Sif says, the mirth returning to her eyes, “Stay on Midgard. Though the other appeals. However, not here.” She inspects the room, a faint line appearing between her brows as she says, “The beds in this vessel are far too small. And the air smells too much of metal. Perhaps when we return to the Tower.”

At that, she sits on the couch and pulls the tablet concerning Doom towards her. Steve remains standing, breathless at her final claim, at the thought, still, of her in a bed with him, and then he sinks down next to her, trying his best to focus. “You, uh, so you,” he says, “you want to kill Doom. Great. Good. Let’s do that.” 

“I thought you would approve.” A faint smirk appears on her face as she slides her finger across the screen of the tablet, pulling up the most recent file about Doom, his confrontation with Tony, his assault on Fury, how he vanished after Fury blew him through the penthouse window. “But to kill Doom,” she says, “we must find him, and this will prove difficult if he teleports as Loki.”

“True,” Steve says. He leans back on the couch and tries not to sigh. “Most of the time, he’s found us. I mean, the only time we found him was when he took Natasha, and then I think he wanted us to find him.”

“What about after?” Sif asks. “Natasha traveled with Loki to Russia. Did she discover anything that could aid in finding Doom?”

_He loved me._

_He still does, if Loki’s right._

“No,” Steve says, but then he stops.

_I thought he would have left Russia after I did._

_But he never left._

He straightens on the couch.

_Doom mentioned the Red Room to me in Venice._

_He said he knew people from there._

“Bucky.”

“What?”

Steve turns to Sif, finds her gaze fixed on him. “Bucky,” he says again. “He came after Natasha because of the woman that Natasha killed, the same woman that Doom wants to avenge. They know each other. If this woman, Anna, knew what Doom was doing, it stands to reason that Bucky does, too. If we can find Bucky, he’ll help us find Doom. He’ll help us stop him.”

Sif lays the tablet on the table and looks at Steve, concern in her eyes. “Why would he aid us?” she asks. “He fired upon Natasha. He intended to slay Loki. He ran from you.”

“That’s because he’s confused,” Steve says, pushing up from the couch. He begins to pace once more, his eyes darting from Sif to his shield to the drawing of Bucky and the Commandoes. “He doesn’t remember, but if he did, he would help. We just… we just have to help him remember. I just…”

_I left him there, Steve._

_He was trying to help me, and he died._

“I just… I have to help him,” he says, his throat constricting. He turns away, swallowing again, trying to breathe in, trying to still the memories, trying to focus, to remember duty and the team and his responsibility, but he fails.

_You’re my family._

_I’m a soldier._

_You’re my friend._

Steve hears Sif stand. She moves toward him and lays a hand on his arm, drawing him around toward her. And Steve tries to breathe, but he can’t. He can only remember. He closes his eyes. He feels Sif wrap her arms around him, and he leans into her, smells sunlight in her hair, feels warmth in her skin and strength in her bones. “I can’t,” he says, the words tangling in his throat. “I can’t wait. I have to help him.”

“Then we will help.”

*

The hush in command unnerves Natasha. She follows Maria to the conference table, watching as her peers glance at her and then away. Maria had pulled her from her training session with Clint, claiming the need for a quick clarification concerning the events in Paris, standard procedure in S.H.I.E.L.D. But now dread begins to settle in her gut and sharpen her nerves, the quiet in the room the quiet of imminent disaster, and Natasha tries not to panic at the fact that she had not seen Loki since his confrontation with Clint. 

_Why wouldn’t I choose you, Barton?_

_You are everything I cannot be._

Had Loki been more agitated than Natasha realized? She knew the conversation had rattled him, but not as much as she feared it would when Darcy informed her of the occurrence. Not as much as it had disturbed Clint. Besides, Thor and Steve were outside the door from which Loki left and Frigga still remained on the ship, so he could not have gone far or done much if she was wrong.

But, still, the dread lingers.

“What’s going on?” she asks, stopping beside Maria. “Has something happened?”

Maria nods. “I didn’t pull you from Clint for clarification. I need your advice.”

At that, Natasha frowns. “Advice? About what?”

“Not what,” Maria says, leaning over to press a button on the table. “Who.”

On the tabletop, the screen closest to them activates. Natasha bends toward the image, finds the feed from the cage in the Carrier projected toward her. A man sits in the center of the cage, his back to the camera, but, though he sits with his back to her, Natasha still knows him. She would know him anywhere, the man a fixed presence in her life since she was twelve, the ghost in the Academy, the man with the metal arm, the man with the cool blue eyes.

Winter.

“How?” she asks, glancing at Maria.

Maria sits in a chair at the table and indicates for Natasha to do the same. Natasha ignores the request; she raises a brow instead. Shaking her head at the obstinacy, Maria says, “He turned himself in to one of our safe houses in Prague about five hours ago. Said he wanted to cooperate, to help us with Doom.”

_Do you know that he asked about you after you failed to return from Prague?_

“Has he?” she asks, her eyes on the screen. “Cooperated?”

“No. He said he’d only talk to one person, which is why he’s here.”

_He loved me._

Natasha looks at Maria. 

_He still does, if Loki’s right._

“Who?”

Maria stares at Natasha, her gaze assessing, ready to gauge and classify a reaction; Natasha returns the stare, her face blank. She trusts Maria as much as she trusts anyone in S.H.I.E.L.D. not Clint or Steve, believing Maria wants to do the right thing, but if there’s one thing Natasha knows, it’s that the right thing differs for everybody, and without Fury and the backing of the Council, the right thing for Maria may be very different from the right thing for Natasha. So she keeps her face blank and she waits. Another moment passes, then Maria says, “He asked to speak to Sif.”

Natasha blinks. Her eyes cut to the screen.

“And this is why I asked you here,” Maria continues, looking now at the screen, having gleaned as much of a reaction from Natasha as Natasha will give. “You would expect him to say you or Steve. Now, Steve said that Winter and Sif talked in Paris, but nothing substantial enough or lengthy enough to explain this. So why would he ask for her unless he’s not here to help? Unless he’s here to divide us and distract us from Doom?”

Natasha looks at Winter.

_He did not want to believe that you would betray the Academy._

_He seemed… different somehow than the others._

_He will come after you. I have made sure of it._

_I asked him why he didn’t kill you in St. Petersburg._

_He never succumbed to sentiment._

_He said the same thing that I did._

“Agent Romanov?”

_Because he loves you._

Natasha looks at Winter. His metal arm gleams in the harsh light of the cage. 

“Natasha?”

“My advice?” she says, stepping back from the table and turning for the door, turning from this day, from the present and her past. “Take him back to the safe house. It doesn’t matter if he’s here to help us or hurt us. No good can come of him here either way.”

*


	39. The Difference Between Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki smirks at that, and Natasha would, too, this exchange so reflective of them, the dangerous process of revelation, mining for truth in a landscape littered by mendacity and scarred by deceit, but she does not, the consequences flickering in the distance troublesome, Winter with the ability to finish what Anna begun, stripping Natasha of what she had fought so hard to recover.

The last of the moonlight creeps through the window, the dawn awaits, but still Natasha has not slept. She sits on the couch in her quarters, the items from her display case cast across the table before her: the feather from Loki, the music from Winter, the gun from Clint, the doll from Phil, and the necklace she acquired from Drakov’s daughter. Lifting the glass in her hand, she finishes the last of the vodka, her eyes first on the feather and then on the music before returning to the feather and then again to the music.

_I asked him why he didn’t kill you in St. Petersburg._

_He said the same thing I did._

How will Loki react? How will he react now that Winter is here because Natasha knows, despite her advice, that Maria will not send Winter away, not when the possibility exists that he spoke the truth about wanting to help. And though Winter wished to speak to Sif first, Natasha knows, too, that he will want to speak with her. Eventually. How could he not? If he desires to help, he’ll want to know how she atoned, how she rebuilt her life here after the Red Room, and if he desires to divide, he’ll need her, too, Natasha the knife to wield against Loki, she the killer of Anna and Loki the antagonist to Doom. 

_What lengths would a man such as he go to in order to rescue a woman such as you?_

Would Winter play upon Loki’s love for her by threatening her, by reinforcing Doom’s intent to kill her, or would he instead reveal his time with her at the Academy, stoking the jealousy so primal, so instinctive to Loki? 

_Have you ever danced with him?_

_And you slept with him?_

_Did you love him?_

Natasha leans over and grabs one of the liquor bottles that she and Clint stole from Tony. Scotch by the look of the label. Opening the bottle, she pours the liquor then sets the bottle on the table by the necklace. As she leans back, the air crackles, green light flashes, and Loki arrives, the first she has seen of him since his confrontation with Clint. He carries the gold mirror from his flat in India; she sees other objects on the glass, but cannot discern them in the dimness of the room. 

Loki stills as he sees her; his eyes cut to the bed, the sheets and blankets undisturbed, then to the scotch in her hand. She detects evaluation, assessment. Crouching, he sets the mirror on the floor beside him and then he looks at her and says, “What happened? Is it Barton?”

Natasha shakes her head, unable to speak at first, the hint of concern for Clint twisting the truth about Winter, tangling the words in her throat. She swallows some of the scotch and licks her lips. She knows she has to tell him. She can’t not. Loki deserves to know and to know from her. Only, telling him sets the board in motion, and for this game Natasha cannot foresee the ending, both players unpredictable, especially with her.

“Natasha—”

“It’s Winter,” she says. “He’s here.”

Loki shows his surprise in the slight pause as he rises. He glances at the table, at the music, and his eyes linger there as he says, “How?”

Natasha does not respond. After a moment, Loki again looks at her, but he does not move toward her. He stays where he stands, and she feels the dread slither in, the first tendrils swirling cool in her gut. “He turned himself in,” she says, watching him as he watches her. “He said he wanted to cooperate. Help us with Doom.”

“Has he?”

The questions are those that she asked Maria only hours before, and Natasha would smirk at the similarity in their approaches, but his distance discomforts her, a sign, she fears, of his doubt. He had asked in St. Petersburg if she loved Winter, and Natasha told him the truth, how she could not, how love had not existed in the Red Room, not for her. And she thought Loki believed her. Why else had he proclaimed his love for her? Why would he do this if he doubted? 

Yet, if he believed, why would he have left the next day, especially when she asked him to stay?

“Natasha?”

Natasha blinks. She focuses again on Loki; he stares at her, his brows drawn together, and she remembers his question. “No,” she says. “He hasn’t. He said he’d only talk to one person.”

Loki narrows his eyes, and the dread deepens within her. “Who?”

_Tell me._

He waits, yet Natasha does not answer. She raises her glass and drinks the scotch, watching him over the edge as she tries to discern his thoughts, but they remain a mystery to her, and she does not know if Loki shrouds them from her deliberately or if she can no longer perceive them, the chaos of the past few days lingering, clouding still. 

The silence persists. Natasha lowers the glass. Loki raises a brow. They stare at each other, at an impasse, and then Natasha prepares to ask, breathing in, because she must know. Always, with Loki, she must know.

“If he asked for me, what would you do?”

“Has he asked for you?”

Now Natasha raises a brow. “You answer my question, I answer yours.”

Loki smirks at that, and Natasha would, too, this exchange so reflective of them, the dangerous process of revelation, mining for truth in a landscape littered by mendacity and scarred by deceit, but she does not, the consequences flickering in the distance troublesome, Winter with the ability to finish what Anna begun, stripping Natasha of what she had fought so hard to recover. 

_I love you. And I know you love me._

Loki must see her concern for his smirk fades, and Natasha cannot breathe as he looks at her, as she sees once more the constrained turbulence in his eyes, as she feels it in herself. “What do you think I would do?” he asks.

She hesitates, his tone betraying the simplicity of the question, transforming the query into one of trust, of faith. Natasha shakes her head, wishing reassurance lay within her, but it does not, not for Loki, not about Winter, not now. “I don’t know,” she says, her hand tightening on the glass.

“But you always know.”

_I don’t have to presume. I know._

She did, she had, since Switzerland she knew, though she did not believe, not until Loki came for her in Latveria, not until he saved her, but her certainty disintegrated with Odin, the fallout of his sacrifice yet to resolve. Standing now, she says, “I don’t. Not now. You told me Winter loved me and then you told me you loved me, but you haven’t kissed me since Omsk, and you left when I asked you to stay. And now Winter’s here, and the last time we spoke about him you told me I should pay him your compliments because he taught me well. So, no, I don’t know how you would react. Not about him. Not about this.”

As she speaks, Loki looks away. He tenses, and she knows that he wants to pace, to burn away the feeling growing within him, stifling him, guilt perhaps, or maybe just recognition, but he stays still. A second passes. Loki glances at the feather and then at the music before he looks at her. Natasha waits, and then he says, slowly, carefully, “What I would do would depend on why he’s here, whether he’s here to help or if he’s here as part of a larger plan.”

“Say he’s here to help.”

“That would depend as well.”

“On what?” she asks, though she already knows.

Loki looks at her. “On you.”

Two words spoken, but four implied: Do you love him? Do you love him still? Do you love him now? Natasha breathes in, trying to stem the anger that begins to brew within her. Even after she crossed the stars and challenged a god and almost died to acquire the Casket to prove to Loki that she loves him, to atone for her lie, he still doubts. He doubts that she loves him. 

As if he knows, he moves closer to her, but he stops at the look in her eyes, at the warning. “I do not doubt you love me,” he says, striving, as she, for balance. “I doubt you never loved him.”

“I told you—”

“You said you could not love him at the Academy, not that you could not love him at all. If he is here, then you could.”

Natasha tries to react, she tries to think, she tries to breathe following this, but she can’t. She can only stare at Loki as disbelief stokes the fire within her. “Do you think I would do that? After everything?” she asks, anger chipping at the words, each syllable like flint. “Do you think I would suddenly decide to start loving Winter now simply because he’s here?”

Loki shakes his head. “I did not say that you would. I said that you could, and if we are anything, Natasha, we are proof that you don’t choose who you love.”

_Couldn’t you have chosen Steve or Bruce… somebody else but him?_

_I don’t think it’s a choice._

And it wasn’t. Natasha cannot deny his claim. She knows the truth in the statement; she felt it before when she had tried to deny her regard for him, when Loki had looked at her as they danced in Venice, when he had lain beside her in the hotel in Switzerland. She knows that, if she could have chosen whom to love, she would have chosen Clint, her trust in him absolute. But choice played no part in who she loved, only whether she loved at all. 

“You’re right,” she says now. “You don’t choose. But you have to trust to love, and Winter… He…” Natasha shakes her head, words failing her, as always, in times of truth. She looks at the feather, crushed by the bullet from Winter and stained with her blood, the bullet the next step in Anna’s retribution, in her endless quest to break Natasha for daring to be more, for daring to be a person and not simply a killer, to be Natasha as well as the Widow. 

“I thought you understood,” she says, staring down at the feather. “You met Anna. You know. I told you about the Academy. How could I trust anyone there?” 

Loki hesitates, but he does not relent. “You said he was different.”

“He was,” Natasha says, looking at him. “The others I understood. They were like Anna. But Winter…” She searches, but again, the words do not come. How to explain to him the lure and repulsion of the ambiguity that she felt for Winter? She looks at the music. “Sometimes I thought I could trust him. Mostly when he played. But I never knew if it was real or if it was a test. Because they had those. A girl, Maria, she fell in love with one of the weapons instructors, and the man reported her. She killed herself the next day. And Winter, sometimes he said things, comments about the Academy that made me wonder, positive things, loyal…” 

Natasha shrugs and looks away. She glances at the music. Winter composed the piece for her, a sonata, while on a mission to Rio. She found the composition scribbled on a scroll beneath the loose board behind her door when he had returned, but another three months passed before the Academy sent her on a mission with him and she could hear him play the piece for her in person. When he did, Natasha believed that he loved her, and when he did, she wanted to love him, but then he killed with a ruthlessness that chilled even her and he spoke of the munificence of the Academy, toward him and toward her, and the contradiction defied clarity. 

“The pieces,” she says, and she hears the ache in her voice, the fear and desire and the desperate need to survive in a young girl born to die and bred to kill, “they didn’t fit. There was always something. Something missing… something off… so I couldn’t.” Natasha feels Loki watching her; she feels the intensity of his gaze, aware of every gesture, each pause, every breath heavy with significance. Glancing at him, she says, “I know why they never fit now. But I still can’t. I don’t know how much of him is Steve’s friend or how much of him is Winter, and I don’t know how much of Winter is the Academy and how much of him is like me, and if I don’t know, if I can’t trust him, then how can I… how could I…?”

Natasha stops, closes her eyes. Her throat constricts and she swallows, she tries to breathe, but she can’t. She clenches her hands and tries to breathe, but she can’t. She hears Loki move, and she opens her eyes to find him turned from her, standing now beside the bed. Natasha watches as his fingertips trace a seam in the blanket. Shadows conceal his face. She moves toward him, but stops when he says, his voice low, “But he intrigues you.” 

_You always had an eye for the striking ones._

The man with the metal arm. The beast with the golden horns.

The men with the cool blue eyes.

He turns to her now. “Doesn’t he?”

_I remember him looking at me. He didn’t look proud like so many of the others._

_He looked sad._

“Tell me,” Loki says, and she hears the snap of anger in the phrase, in the demand, their refrain.

“Why?” she asks, rising to meet his ire. “So you can kill him? Or so you have a reason to run again?”

Natasha sees the nerve she struck; Loki smiles, the sharp one, as jagged as smashed glass. At the church in Switzerland they fought: they destroyed their pretense, smashing through their acts of self to find each other in the end. In Russia and Latveria they fought: they wielded words, honed as knives, Loki to wound and Natasha to persuade, but she lost. They lost. Would they lose now, so quickly after they found each other? Natasha breathes in. She strives for control, for balance, so tenuous now, the days pressing upon her, the lack of sleep and the alcohol, the anxiety, Anna and Winter, Clint and Steve, Odin and Fury, and Loki, broken, selfish, desperate, proud, defiant, sly and startling Loki. 

Natasha breathes in again and takes a step toward him. “I—”

“‘You’ve changed,’” he says, shaking his head. “‘You can be more.’” He laughs at that, but she sees the sheen of tears in his eyes as he throws her words at her, as he stands before Natasha as he stood in St. Petersburg, wounded and willing to wound. She feels the conversation slip away; it spins beyond her grasp as it always has, from the first moment Loki appeared in her apartment, the night he believed he would die. His eyes cut to her and cut into her, the anger in them fresh from old pain. “I thought you would have learned by now, Agent Romanov, not to tell such lies.”

_Change. That’s the cruelest lie you’ve told._

And Natasha cannot stop herself, she cannot walk away. She holds his gaze, the rage within her, the passion that he stirs, burning. “And what have you done to prove otherwise?” she asks. “You talked to Clint, but that was because he found you, right? Aside from that, you’ve run. You ran after Paris. You ran from me yesterday.”

“I ran from Thor, not—” 

“—and now, now you speak to me about belief, how I don’t believe in you. But what belief have you shown in me, doubting me still about Winter?”

“What cause have you given me?” he asks, moving toward her. “Barton agitated you, but never this way.” He gestures to the items on the table, to the bottle, to the glass and the liquor. 

“This wasn’t about Winter,” she says. “This was about you and—”

“Then why had you been crying when you came to the cage?”

Natasha stops, pulled short by the question, but Loki presses on, he presses forward, coming toward her now as he says, his voice again the low thrum from the Carrier, “You would not have cried about Fury. Death does not speak to you in such terms. And you would not do so for the others, your team. You care for them, but distantly. You had no cause to experience such distress for me. Not then. So this leaves Barton. Or Winter.”

_Have you ever danced with him?_

_And you slept with him?_

“Tell me you hadn’t spoken to the Captain as he desired for you to do,” Loki says. He stares at her; the light from the dawn catches his eyes, the blue like the sea in a storm. “Tell me you didn’t remember him, your time with him. Tell me you didn’t cry for him.”

_Did you love him?_

Natasha is silent. 

“Tell me.”

_Pay him his compliments when he comes for you._

_He taught you well._

“Tell me, Natasha.”

“No.”

Natasha expects the word to ring through the room, to reverberate in the corners and the shadows given the turmoil within her, the shackles of control maintaining only the slimmest of holds upon her emotions, but the word settles between she and Loki calm, centered, and balanced. Loki stills at her refusal and his eyes narrow. She shakes her head and eases back as she says, “I said what I’m going to say. I’ve told you, twice, what he is to me. I shouldn’t have to anymore. I won’t.”

Turning now, she finds the dawn broken, the sunlight bleeding into the sea and the sky, the sky aching from the strain of a new day. But is it new? She thought she had reached Loki in Paris, she thought they would abandon the past, abandon the lies, Loki Odinson and Natasha Romanov, and become simply Loki and Natasha, but the past still torments. Would it always?

“Natasha—”

“Are you looking for a reason to destroy this?” she asks, looking back at him. 

Shock flits across his face, then his expression sets. “I look for truth,” he says. “You—”

“I gave you truth, which you don’t seem to want to hear. Why is that?” Loki does not respond. Natasha turns and faces him once more. “Do you want me to love Winter?” she asks quietly.

“No.”

“But you believe that I do?”

Loki shakes his head, and Natasha feels frustration ignite again within her. He does not want her to love Winter, he does not believe that she does, Loki believes that she loves him, but still he pushes, still they fight. “Then what—” she asks.

“I believe that you will,” he says.

“I said—”

“I know what you said,” he snaps, moving toward her and then away, the pressure within him pushed to capacity. “I know.” Loki shakes his head and finally succumbs to the need to pace; Natasha watches as he stalks the confines of the room, as he glances at the mirror. In the morning light, she sees on the surface the sword made of glass from Asgard, a small wood box, a crystal bowl, and a silver knife, similar to the one that he conjured for her in Omsk. She wants to ask about the objects, but Loki looks at her again, and she waits. He looks at her, and she waits, and the silence builds, it thickens, it presses against her, slides heavy and slow into her lungs, and she draws in breath as he does too, and she watches as he releases it, as Loki grimaces and then says, “I ran after Paris. I ran even though you asked me to stay. And now I fight with you, and I know I should not. You deserve no doubt. About Winter, you have only ever been honest with me. But I…” 

Loki stops. He turns away and grits his teeth; the tension transforms his body into a plucked string. Natasha moves toward him, but she does not touch him. Would they shatter if she did? “So why?”

“Because this is who I am,” he says, turning now, the words bursting from him as he closes the distance between them. “This is what I do.”

_Don’t do this._

_But this is what I do. This is who I am._

_Or is our first encounter such as distant memory for you?_

“You said I can be more,” he says now, tears again in his eyes. “Frigga says the same. But I fight with you and I fought with Frigga and I fought with Thor, and I don’t want to, but I do and I feel that I always shall. There is no peace inside me, only guilt that burns, and you and Frigga say to try, but when I do, this occurs—”

“No. When you try, what happened with Clint occurs.” 

“What—” 

“You have no idea, do you, what you’ve done for him?” Natasha doesn’t wait for a response, the look on his face clear enough. “You might not feel peace now, but he does, and it’s because you stayed when he found you. Even when he said what he said to you, and I know what Clint said because he told me, you tried to help him. And you did. I don’t know why you can’t see that.”

Loki looks away. He glances down at the mirror, his eyes troubled, and Natasha wonders again why he has it, what occurred between his departure from the cage and his arrival now. He opens his mouth, hesitates, and then smirks at his hesitation. A moment passes, and his eyes cut to the table, to the feather, as he says, “Faith in one’s self does not come easy, not for someone such as I, not for something such as this.”

He meets her eyes. 

_You are worth saving. Even if you don’t believe it, I do._

_Why?_

“Is this why you haven’t kissed me yet?” she asks. “Doubt?”

Loki shakes his head. “I hate this ship, yet I attempted— I intended— to stay. So I waited.”

He shrugs now, looking away, and for the first time since Natasha followed Maria to Command and saw Winter in the cage, she feels hope. “So let’s go someplace else,” she says. 

_So we’ll go someplace else._

Loki looks back at her, and when he stares, his gaze so intent, all the word, all of time focused into this moment, this space between them, she cannot breathe. 

_You did hear the part about bed rest, right?_

“I’ve heard you’re good with illusions,” she continues, her tone light despite the precipice upon which she stands, the gossamer glimmer of hope. “We might have to stay here, but that doesn’t mean we have to be here.”

_I do happen to be quite skilled with illusions, though, so while you may remain in bed, you need not remain in this room._

They stare at each other. For a moment, Loki is silent, and then his hand touches hers, a slight graze of his thumb against her fingertips, but enough to echo up her arm and along her spine. 

“Where?” he asks.

_Anywhere I’ve been._

Perhaps they can change. Perhaps he can believe in her, in him. Perhaps he can believe in them. Perhaps Winter will not succeed where Anna barely failed.

At that, Natasha smiles.

_Surprise me._

“Surprise me.”

He does not ask her to close her eyes this time. Instead, Loki closes his, and she watches as the room shimmers and the light bends, as her quarters fade, as the dawn darkens into night beyond the window, and the sea and sky retain the shape of mountains. Natasha blinks, and their hotel room in Switzerland resolves around her. She turns and finds her cabernet dress, shredded at the hem and bloodied, she finds the bottle of bourbon they shared before confronting each other at the church, the desk at which he sat, contemplating the disappearance of Thor. 

Loki opens his eyes, and she knows he chose this for a reason besides the physical, for sentiment rather than for sex. She stares down at the dress. “Why?”

He does not hesitate. “Because it was here I first desired to kiss you.”

_Isn’t it funny?_

“You showered,” he says. “I sat in the chair waiting for you, remembering the conflict in Venice, how I fell, foolish in my estimation of Doom. I remembered how you came to my aid. You cast yourself between us, with no regard for your safety, and I thought, at first, you did so because you would be sure to perish on your own, Doom formidable with magic. But at that moment, you opened the door and I looked at you, and I realized that you came to my aid because that is who you are, someone who possesses courage beyond the most daring of gods and compassion to care even for me.”

_Isn’t it funny the way the worlds turn and the fates fall?_

He looks at her, the question of when in his eyes, and again Natasha smiles. She can’t not.

“Surprise me.”

She remembers the moment before he showed her the stars, the sunlight shining upon his face, her relief at both of them surviving the torture and conflict with Doom. She wanted to touch him then, but she resisted. Now, she does. She turns her hand and closes her fingers around his palm. Loki lifts his other hand; she feels cool fingertips trace the line of her brow. His thumb hovers over the rune; it catches in the corner of her mouth. Throughout the exploration, he watches her, his gaze does not waver, and Natasha feels open, she feels vulnerable, but she feels the intimacy as a balm, not as a trial to be endured. 

Loki leans in, but he does not close his eyes and neither does Natasha. Instead, she waits. The kiss must be his, the final reconciliation from their dissolution in Russia. His gaze drops to her mouth, and she waits. Loki looks back at her, but Natasha knows this is not hesitation, she knows this is not doubt. This is anticipation, this is the swell of the music, and this, she knows, will not be rushed. 

_Sometimes I think this is still a dream. You came to me in July, and you changed my life. So… quickly. So completely. How could this be real?_

_Because it is._

And it is. Her eyes fall shut as Loki kisses her, and Natasha knows that this is real. They had been lies and they had lied, but now they find the truth of themselves in each other, the sentiment that they each had shunned, and Natasha knows that, when she wakes the next morning, Loki will be there and so will she because they may not have chosen to fall in love, but they choose now to be in love, despite the past and because of the future.

_I love you. And I know you love me._

The world beyond her door waits for them, Steve and Winter, Clint and Thor, Doom waits for them, but the world will wait. This moment belongs to them, and they will not be rushed. 

*


	40. Welcome to the Monkey House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Jane slides into her seat, closing the circle, the circuit, of the Avengers, a collective intake of breath occurs, or Clint imagines it so, the taste of the air the same as when he was a kid and he stood on the plains in Iowa, Nebraska, Oklahoma, the tents of the circus behind him, ready to be unpacked, but the sky dark before him, the sable clouds unfurling, thick as paint on a canvas, the vast dome of the earth, one second, two seconds, three passing before the lightning cracked, slashing, blinding white, down to the plains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from the Kurt Vonnegut story of the same name.

Midmorning the Helicarrier rises from its perch in the Atlantic Ocean, rocking Jane as she walks down the hall beside Thor. She wishes she could attribute the nervousness she feels to the fact that the Carrier flies to find Doom. Then, at least, she would feel somewhat equal to the company she keeps, spies and gods and men who turned into Hulks, genuine heroes who saved the world and now plan to save another one. But Jane can’t. She knows that her sweaty palms and churning gut derive from an entirely different source, the most banal, yet terrifying, of causes. 

Meeting the parent of your significant other.

Of course, her significant other, or potential significant other, Jane doesn’t know if she and Thor are together despite his invitation to his coronation in Asgard, and besides can one simply date the king of an eternal alien planet, maybe they don’t date on Asgard, it’s not like he could take her to dinner and a movie, they don’t even have movies on Asgard. Jane doesn’t know if they even have plays, perhaps she’s been misappropriating Elizabethan culture for Asgard because she’s heard one too many quips from Tony about the one time he asked Thor if his mother knew that he was wearing her drapes while performing Shakespeare in the park, and at the thought of Thor’s mother, Jane has to stop and lean her head against the wall because the reality of this moment hits her once again, the fact that she, Jane Foster, woman from the Earth, is about to meet someone who has been alive since the start of the Bronze Age. 

Four thousand years. Frigga is four thousand years old. 

Thor is a thousand. 

Jane is twenty-seven. 

Swallowing hard, Jane contemplates bending over to place her head between her knees. The last thing she needs is to faint or vomit or laugh like a crazy person in front of a woman so powerful that she teleported who knows how many hundreds of thousand of light years, maybe millions, to Earth in order to save her son. The amount of power required for such a feat amazes Jane. What could she ever talk to Frigga about? Her work? How insignificant it must seem to a woman who can actually cross the stars. 

Jane feels Thor place a hand on her shoulder. His touch, warm and solid, soothes some of the unease within her. “Do not feel distress,” he says. “My mother has looked forward to this day since I first spoke of you.”

“That… doesn’t help. At all,” Jane says as she turns toward him. “In fact, that makes it worse because I know how you would talk about me because you’re _you_ and you would accentuate the positive, maybe even write a sonnet or at least propose a toast in my honor, the great Lady Jane. But it’s not true. I mean,” and here she pauses, drawing in a breath, on the roll to Crazy Town as Darcy would say, “I know I’m smart. You can’t have false modesty in my field, and if you were a human, and if I were meeting your mother, who would also be a human, my work, my studies, all of that would impress. Immensely. But your mother is a god, and—”

“So am I, and you captivated me.”

The compliment surprises her, as Thor so often does. He takes one of her hands, and Jane feels the giddy smile form on her face before she shakes her head and says, “I know. But you’re you and—”

“And she is my mother. She does not ask for you to impress her, Jane. She asks to meet you as you are important to me. This is all.”

Jane stares at Thor, wishing, but knowing, this is not all. It never is in matters like this. Jane only has to remember her own mother for confirmation. The first few times she attempted to bring a boy home to meet her mother ended in such disaster that Jane vowed never to do so again. She would rather listen to the endless lectures about her inevitable spinsterhood every time she calls home than endure another meet and—

Her thoughts stop as, at that moment, Thor cups her cheek, bends down, and kisses her.

If their first kiss burned, this one warms, soft where the last was rough, like hushed summer rain rather than the clap of a storm. Jane leans into him, closing her eyes, the lean of a leaf toward sunlight, and the tension within her surrenders to his touch. The run of her thoughts slows to a relaxed meditation of the feel of his beard against her face and the taste of chamomile tea on his lips.

The kiss ends, Thor easing back, his hand settling now upon the curve of her neck. Jane opens her eyes to find him smiling down at her, tender, but also entirely too pleased with himself, yet rather than irritation, her lips quirk into the beginnings of a smile.

“You did that on purpose,” she says.

“Of course.” His eyes sparkle as he grins at her. “Have I succeeded in distracting you from your distress?”

He had, and he knows it, so Jane says nothing, she merely grabs his elbow and pulls him along before the glow of him and his smile and his regard for her diminishes beneath the harsh glare of anxiety. Thor laughs as he follows her, and Jane does, too, and the lightness carries her the rest of the way to the medical wing. 

In the hall, she stops, then she eyes the door behind which Frigga waits; the light shines on the window looking out from the room. Thor clasps her hand, and they walk to the door, each step quickening her thoughts, Jane searching for something interesting and witty and intelligent to say, but before she can, Thor opens the door, before she can, he walks inside, before she can, he stops, and Jane feels a shock of pain as his hand tenses around hers, but before she can say anything, she hears someone, a man, say, “You might want to release the mortal before you crush her hand.”

Thor does. He turns to check on her, and it is then Jane sees that Frigga is not alone. Natasha and a man she presumes to be Loki sit in chairs beside the bed.

“Have I hurt you?” Thor asks, his voice a low murmur as he regards her hand.

Jane shakes her head, even though pain pricks the back of her hand, as Frigga, Loki, and Natasha now watch her. They remind her, absurdly, of cats, three enormous, deadly cats coolly assessing her. Her mother always had cats, heinous beasts that would throw up on her bed simply because she didn’t like them. In college, her roommate, a girl named Sarah, owned a cat too, Madagascar, one of those fat, lazy cats that loved nothing more than lying in a patch of afternoon sun while someone rubbed its belly. Jane liked that cat.

If only the three before her resembled Madagascar.

After another moment, Thor turns back to the room, but he makes no move to approach Frigga or to speak to her, or to anyone. Jane glances at him and finds him staring at Loki, who stares now at the wall, his jaw clenched tight. The silence persists. In the stillness, Jane sees Frigga look first at Thor and then at Loki, and the expression in her eyes, the concern and the love, diminishes the anxiety that Jane feels, the expression so open, so… human.

How she wished her mother would look at her.

Straightening her shoulders, Jane eases around Thor and approaches Frigga, hand outstretched, ignorant of a more appropriate greeting custom for the Queen of Asgard. “Hi,” she says. “I’m Jane. Foster. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Frigga clasps her hand in both of hers, and the smile that appears on her face is one that Jane has seen on Thor, clear and bright in its joy. “It is an honor for me, too,” she says. Freeing one hand, Frigga flicks her wrist and two chairs materialize from nowhere, one beside Jane, next to Natasha, and one between Natasha and Loki. “Please,” she says. “Sit.”

Jane glances again at Thor, who moves stiffly to the seat beside Loki. As his hand falls onto the back, Loki tenses, poised for flight, but then Natasha shifts in her chair. Loki looks at her, then at Frigga. His eyes narrow in a glare, but he does not move. A beat passes and then Thor sits, and so does Jane; as she does, she sees Natasha catch Frigga’s eye. Something passes between them, perhaps actual communication, the extent of Frigga’s abilities beyond Jane’s comprehension, but before she can contemplate the possibility of actual telepathy, Frigga turns to her and says, “Ms. Foster—”

“Please call me Jane.”

Frigga smiles. “Jane, Thor tells me that you have worked these past few days to find a way to prevent Doom from reaching Asgard.”

Jane nods. She latches onto the subject, delving into her efforts since her escape from Galisteo. Though it may not impress, this, at least, is something she can discuss and something that can distract from the current tension, something, she suspects, Frigga and Natasha desire as much as Jane herself. “I’ve given Tony my data about the location of Asgard relative to Earth, the physics behind the Einstein-Rosen Bridge, and he’s given me his data on the Arc Reactor. We know that Doom has the energy to reach Asgard, with enough left over for him to funnel into an attack or another jump somewhere else, so we’re working on a way to either disrupt the Bridge, collapse it maybe, or somehow contain the energy, but we’ve hit a wall.”

“Why is that?” Frigga asks.

“We understand the components, but not the method. The process isn’t entirely chemical in nature. There’s something else involved that we can’t determine, some catalyst, and without knowing what it is, we can’t—”

“It’s magic.”

At the statement, Jane turns. She finds Loki looking at her, one brow raised in dismissive disdain as though the answer were obvious, as though magic were common on Earth, like water or eggs. Thor breathes in; his hands grip his knees, the hold so tight his knuckles show white beneath his skin. Loki glances at him, sighs, and then says, the disdain dialed down to levels approaching civility, “Doom is a sorcerer as well as a scientist. He’s melded the two together. Magic is the catalyst you lack.”

Silence follows his clarification. Jane nods, feeling the need for some response, yet hesitating at the thought of questioning him further about the relation between magic and science. She wants to know, she always wants to know, the persistence of her questions a delight to her father when he had the time while an irritation to her mother, but Thor stares so resolutely at the wall that she pauses. Before she can decide whether to question Loki further, Frigga ends the tortuous silence. “It is fortunate,” she says, “that you know the method underlying this magic better than anyone, what with your experience with the Tesseract as well as your attempts to construct such bridges between the realms.”

Her comment elicits a strained smile from Loki. He glances at Frigga, who returns his gaze, her expression cool, unruffled by his antipathy, and Jane again contemplates the reality of telepathy as they stare at each other. A beat passes and then Loki looks away, rolling his eyes as he says, “Yes. I suppose it is.”

“Does this mean you’ll help?” Jane asks, unable to stop herself, the possibility as unexpected to her as magic.

Loki nods. Then his eyes cut to Thor and he says, his voice as honed as his gaze, “Asgard is, after all, my home.”

The declaration hovers in the air, the air thick and static, and then Thor moves, finally turning to Loki. They stare at each other, and Jane knows that Frigga and Natasha watch them as Jane does too. The tip of her nose begins to itch, but she doesn’t move, she barely even breathes, the strain between Thor and Loki like the approach of a hurricane, or two hurricanes on a collision course. Another moment passes and then Thor leans forward and says, “Loki—”

Loki stands, shoving his chair back so quickly that Jane starts. Eyes flitting to her, he says, “Tell Stark to send Natasha the data. I’ll review it after this inane meeting the Captain has called.”

He strides from the room then; the door bangs against the wall in his wake. Thor clenches his hands and tenses to rise, to follow him, Jane knows, but Natasha stills him with a hand on his arm. Turning to her, he says, “He—”

“I know. But first he had it out with you, and then he did with me, so—”

“Have patience?” Thor asks, displeasure twisting his lips.

“No. Remember what Odin and I discussed. Maybe then you’ll understand.” She stands before Thor can respond and turns to Frigga. They regard each other a moment and then Natasha says, “Safe travels.”

Frigga nods. “I will send word should Doom move against Asgard prior to your discovery of him here. And I will await the time of our next meeting.”

Natasha’s lips twitch in what Jane assumes is a smile. Without another word, she leaves, and as the door clicks shut behind her, Thor rounds on Frigga and says, “He—”

Frigga holds up a hand. “I know,” she says. “I share your concern. You desire the best for him and for Asgard, but neither of us can understand his position, given our history with Jotunheim.”

At the mention of Jotunheim, Thor deflates, but he does not desist. Glancing again at the chair from which Loki departed, he says, “So you persist in advising patience?”

“No,” she says. “I advise you to focus on defeating Doom. Doing so before he succeeds in his vengeance against Asgard will provide you common ground with Loki and an opportunity for him to come to you when he is ready. Moreover, if Doom succeeds in destroying our home, there will be no realm to change, and this all would have been for naught. Do you not agree, Jane?”

It takes a second for Jane to realize that Frigga has addressed her. She blinks and looks at her and then at Thor, who meets her gaze, one brow arched in inquiry. Does she agree? The thought of forming a pledge one way or the other without possessing all of the data unsettles her. Natasha indicated that Thor and Loki had fought, seemingly about change in Asgard. The nature of the change, then, factors into yes or no. Perhaps the change is necessary, despite the consequences it engenders, but even if it is not, the likelihood of the change desired by Thor eclipsing the danger of Doom as a priority seems small to Jane. If Asgard is destroyed, there is no realm to change, as Frigga said, and what purpose would there be for another fight with Loki?

Drawing in a breath, Jane nods. Thor regards her a moment and then sighs. He leans back in his chair and rubs a hand along his jaw, and the set of his shoulders, the shadows beneath his eyes, reveal his uncertainty. The sight stills Jane, certainty, for her, his defining characteristic. From the moment they met, Thor knew who he was and what he should do, and the sight of his doubt scratches at old wounds within her, old doubts of her ability, of her right to pursue a career in a field of science.

“On second thought,” she says, “do what you think is right. I don’t know what’s caused the strain between you and Loki, but he didn’t leave when you and I came in, and I could tell he wanted to. And you are trying to help him, to do what’s best. So do it. He’ll come around.” She pauses then and smiles, remembering their rushed few days in New Mexico. “It’s kind of hard not to when it comes to you.”

_I've never done anything like this before. Have you ever done anything like this before?_

_Many times. But you're brave to do it._

Thor lowers his hand. “Do you believe this? Truly?”

Jane nods again, sure of him if of little else in this strange new world she inhabits.

His eyes brighten, and the pressure in the room abates. The smile that he sends her coerces her nerves into effervescence, into exuberance, and, for a moment, she revels in the feeling and in him before she turns to Frigga. Jane expects disapproval, yet she finds none, the intensity of the gaze from assessment, not censure, and the thought catches in her mind that, though she had not intended nor even tried, Jane had found a way to impress her, one mortal amongst the gods. 

*

Darcy stands at the edge of her bed, staring at the package amidst the standard issue and entirely drab military covers. An agent (intern? lackey? minion?) had delivered it this morning, and for a moment, Darcy thought that Clint had sent her brownies, preferred by Lewis women to flowers for as long as she’s been alive. Yet the object within was about as far from brownies as Darcy could imagine, similar, perhaps, in color, but even then too dark, too cold, and too deadly.

A gun.

The note taped to the outside of the box informed her of the mandatory firearm training for all S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. Darcy knew this. Fury informed her of the necessity before she signed the papers to join the agency. She had merely shrugged and signed, the idea of a gun just that then: an idea. Now the reality sits before her, and Darcy swears she can smell death wafting from the box, though the saner parts of her brain inform her that the smell is metal, not mortality. 

A knock sounds on the door. Her eyes on the gun, as though it would move were she to avert her gaze, Darcy shuffles backwards. She paws for the door handle, jams her finger, curses, and then starts as she hears Tony laugh on the other side. 

Turning, she opens the door, and the second shock of the day greets her. In the hall beside Tony and his shit-eating grin stands Captain America, who looks at Darcy with nary a grin, less a shit-eating one, on his face. Instead, he seems perturbed and somewhat distracted, and the words pop out of her mouth before she can stop them. 

“I didn’t do it.”

Tony laughs. “Smooth, Lewis. Real smooth.”

“What?” Darcy says. “It’s his fault. He’s standing here all stern and disapproving. It’s giving me high school principal flashbacks.”

Steve frowns, solidifying the air of exasperated authority about him. Glancing at Tony, he says, “Are you sure about this?”

Tony eyes him and nods. “She’s not wrong. All you need are a few detention slips in your hand and everybody will start calling you Principal America.”

At that, he pushes past Darcy and strolls into her room. She watches him, swiveling to follow his progress as he peruses her stuff, alarmingly limited given her hasty exit from New Mexico. She hopes someday she’ll return and gather her belongings, or S.H.I.E.L.D. could send someone to do that for her. Or Tony could. But then he would probably snoop as he’s snooping now, peering into her bag before plucking her iPod from its depths. He flops down onto her bed, jostling the box with the gun, and her heart stops as her brain imagines the gun firing and killing Iron Man or Captain America. Or her, before she has another chance to make out with Clint. 

Darting forward, Darcy snatches her iPod away from Tony and then gathers the box, setting both on the nearby table. As she turns back around, she finds Steve in the room now, standing before the door, scanning the room with his critical eye. A moment of silence passes in which she waits for one of them to speak, to explain the meaning for their presence, but Steve merely inspects the room while Tony watches her, an impish light in his eyes, and Darcy knows for some reason he’s waiting for her to get this bizarre show on the road.

“So,” she says, “not that I mind, because who would mind a visit from Iron Man and Captain America, genuine heroes and all that stuff, but, uh, what are you doing here?”

“That,” Tony says, “is a very good question. Direct, forthright, straight to the point, wouldn’t you say, Principal Rogers?”

Ignoring Tony, Steve turns to her and says, “We’re here because we have a proposition for you.”

It takes every fiber of Darcy’s being to resist the _Indecent Proposal_ reference that pops into her brain. Something of it must show on her face because she sees Tony smirk at her. Keeping her gaze fixed firmly on Steve, she says, “What kind of proposition?”

“For you to become the official S.H.I.E.L.D.-Avengers liaison.”

The admission renders her speechless. She doubted that Tony would come here laughing if she were in trouble. Or maybe he would, but not if the trouble were serious. But still, she anticipated some censure from them, some reprimand for being too loud or too blunt. Or maybe for kissing Clint, which might be against twelve thousands government regulations, how would she know, she just joined S.H.I.E.L.D. like a week ago. But if it was, Clint should have known and told her, but Clint also seemed like the kind of person who didn’t give a shit about government directives, at least not the inane ones, so why would he care? He was a kickass, superheroic marksman, a lot more valuable than the latest, most hastily hired S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, yet apparently Steve and Tony were here to make her an offer, a genuine, respectable sounding offer, one, possibly, that she couldn’t refuse.

“What’s a liaison?”

“You know Phil?” Tony says. “Agent Coulson? You’re him, if you want to be. But, you know, you.”

Darcy knows the name, Clint’s friend, the one who died. The one Loki killed. She pushes aside that thought, desiring, for the moment, not to focus on the high probability of death when one is a member of S.H.I.E.L.D., and she says instead, “What did he do?”

Tony smirks. “He kept us from killing each other.” 

At that, Steve turns to Tony and glares. Tony shrugs, unrepentant, eliciting a sigh from Steve. He turns back to her and says, his patience at the two of them obviously thin, “He helped facilitate a smooth working relationship between S.H.I.E.L.D. and the team, which has been known to be… strained in the past.”

“And by strained,” Tony says, “Steve means an intense desire to punch each other in the face. And sometimes kill each other. But most of that was because of Loki.” 

Darcy raises a brow. “But isn’t he on the team now?”

Tony grins. Or grimaces. Darcy can’t tell for sure. “Allegedly.”

They stare, waiting for her to respond to their offer, but still she cannot process this twist. They want her, Darcy Lewis, she who eats chocolate cake for breakfast and forgets as often as she remembers to pay her bills on time, to be the responsible and mature middle in this secret spy agency and superhero sandwich.

“Uh,” she says, “why? Why me?” 

“Because you’re perfect,” Tony says.

Long has Darcy dreamed for a man to realize this about her, but the charm of the statement fades at the twin smiles that Steve and Tony send her. And it shouldn’t, Steve so handsome and brave and tall and Tony, well, Tony, but it does. They smile at her, and she retreats, her eyes narrowed as she contemplates his claim. She’s perfect. Perfect for a job that entails the prevention of them from killing each other. For a second, her thoughts turn to the gun lurking behind her, but then she looks at Tony and she knows. This isn’t about guns. This is about words. Hers.

“This is because I convinced Clint to talk to Loki?”

Steve nods. “You’ve done a great service for Agent Barton—”

Darcy glances at Tony, who, miraculously, is restraining himself from saying whatever filthy comment has popped into his brain about she and Clint and services rendered between them.

“—helping him past, well, the past,” Steve continues, oblivious to the glare that she sends Tony. “Tony says that you prize effective communication, and we could use more of that.”

“Does he says that?” she asks, still glaring at Tony. “Because I distinctly recall him saying that I almost killed all of us by organizing the Clint and Loki hour of power sharing—”

“The Share Time Power Hour,” Tony says with a sigh.

“Whatever. The point is,” she says, rounding on him, “yesterday you said that talking was about as useful as a hot milkshake, and now you’re all for me talking in an official capacity?”

“Yes.”

A beat passes in which Darcy assesses Tony, and then she says, “Is this because of my dad?”

Steve looks at her and then at Tony, his brows drawn together. “Your dad? Who’s—”

Tony shakes his head. “This is because of Clint. And Pepper. She trusted you enough to talk to you about me, and I trust her instincts.”

Darcy raises a brow. “Especially after you gave me the Tony Stark third degree yesterday.”

Tony grins at that. “Yep.”

Again they stare, Steve still baffled and Tony still amused, but both expectant as to her answer, but still Darcy resists. “But I’ve only been in S.H.I.E.L.D. in week. Less than a week. Isn’t there someone more experienced or at least more competent with a gun who’s available for the job?”

Steve and Tony look at each other and then at Darcy. Steve coughs once, and Tony sends her his best winning grin, and Darcy tries not to sigh.

“No one else would take the job,” she says.

Tony shakes his head. “We kind of give ‘high-maintenance dysfunction’ a new name.”

“We?” Steve asks, turning to him.

“Yes, Capsicle. We. Or do you not have a newly discovered one-armed super assassin for a best friend?”

Steve opens his mouth to retort, closes it, and then looks at Darcy, scowling. Or maybe smiling. Darcy can’t tell for sure. She draws in a breath and contemplates this turn of events. They were asking her to be the babysitter therapist for a group of extraordinarily powerful, emotionally disturbed, and occasionally violent superheroes because she had words and wasn’t afraid to use them. 

Okay. 

Okay.

Turning, Darcy crosses to her bag at the head of the bed and removes her tazer. She hears Tony laugh as she checks the charge. Glancing at him, she says, “You laugh now, but I took Thor _and_ Doom down with my tazer, and I will do the same to you, Iron Teakettle, if I need to.”

Steve laughs at the look on Tony’s face. “Ms. Lewis, I think you might be just what we need.”

Recovering, his eyes still on the tazer, Tony closes the distance between them and slings an arm around Darcy’s shoulders. “What he means is, welcome to the monkey house, kid.”

*

One by one they arrive, the Avengers, first Steve, tense and focused, and then Tony, his hands in his pockets, a show of casual, although, when his eyes flit to Steve, Clint can see concern. Darcy follows him, her bag in her hands, grinning at Clint as she claims the chair beside him. She plops her bag on the table and removes a pad of paper, a pen, a can of soda, an apple, and her tazer. He smirks at the last, understanding the desire to be armed amongst such company, superpowered men and gods, though he trusts the team as much as he can.

Bruce enters then, his hands in his pockets, no show of casual though, just discomfort at being back on the ship that he almost destroyed. After him comes Sif. She stops next to Steve, and he looks at her and she smiles, a reassuring one that does not quite conceal the concern in her eyes. And Clint knows the cause for the concern from Tony and Sif, Natasha finally telling him the day before about Winter and his connection to her and Steve. The secrecy Clint accepts as par for the course with Natasha, he’s sure other parts of her past remain as shrouded as Winter had until this past week, but the memory of her clenched jaw as she spoke of him, mirrored now in Steve, sets Clint on edge, Natasha and Steve the two steadiest members of the team. If they fall because of Winter, how quickly would the rest of them?

As if to test the query, Natasha walks in then, followed by Loki. Steve tenses as he catches sight of her, first looking at her and then turning away before again looking at her as she makes her way to the empty chair beside Clint. The look in his eyes tells Clint that the issue of Winter will be addressed sooner rather than later, this meeting most likely called by Steve to discuss him and how to find him as well as finding Doom. Clint nods at Natasha as she sits beside him, but she does not look at him. She stares at Steve, who holds her gaze, and Clint breathes in, preparing.

Beyond Natasha, Loki scans the table. His eyes pause on Steve and Sif, first on him and then on her; she meets his gaze, chin raised in the air, and Clint can tell from the look that history exists between them, too. At that, he almost laughs, this tangled web that enmeshes the team growing more tortuous each day. As proof, Thor strides into the room, and both Loki and Sif turn to look at him. He stills when he sees them, his eyes moving from one to the other; the tension between Sif and Thor intrigues Clint. He thought they were friends, but now Thor seems the odd man out in this trio and Clint wonders why. He watches as Thor falters in his progress across the room, the only open seats between Loki and Bruce. Turning, he looks back at Jane, her head bent over a tablet as she trails him to the table, then he crosses to the seat beside Loki, right hand clenched as he sits, eyes forward and body tense. 

When Jane slides into her seat, closing the circle, the circuit, of the Avengers, a collective intake of breath occurs, or Clint imagines it so, the taste of the air the same as when he was a kid and he stood on the plains in Iowa, Nebraska, Oklahoma, the tents of the circus behind him, ready to be unpacked, but the sky dark before him, the sable clouds unfurling, thick as paint on a canvas, the vast dome of the earth, one second, two seconds, three passing before the lightning cracked, slashing, blinding white, down to the plains.

Steve stands. He stares at them for a moment, glances down, clears his throat, and then begins.

“Thank you for coming. Before we start, I’d like to introduce Darcy Lewis. Most of you know her already, but she’s consented to be our new liaison with S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“Try not to kill this one,” Tony says, glancing at Loki.

Half the table glares at Tony for the comment; the other half peers at Loki, including Darcy, who gives a little wave when he looks in her direction. Turning back to Tony, Loki narrows his eyes, but before he can speak, Steve continues, the tone of his voice brooking no further remarks, “Our purpose here is Doom. Finding him and stopping him. He’s vowed to destroy Asgard, and we know from Natasha and Loki’s visit to Russia that he knows how to open portals. We know from Ms. Foster’s research that he has a fair idea of its location, and we know he has the power to get there, given what he stole from Tony. But he’s still here, somewhere. Heimdall hasn’t alerted us to any movement made against Asgard. So the question becomes, why is he still on Earth?”

Steve pauses and breathes in. He looks at Sif. She gives a small nod, and Steve nods in return, as if to reassure himself of the rightness of what he is about to say, of what he is about to propose. Turning back to the team, he says, “I—I have an idea, a way to find out why he’s still on Earth, to learn his plan.” Another pause, shorter this time, yet weightier, for it is then that he looks at Natasha, and it is then that he says, “I want to find Bucky.” 

Silence follows his pronouncement. Clint glances at Natasha and finds her gaze fixed on Steve, her face a smooth mask save for the tension tightening the corners of her eyes. Beyond her, Loki tilts his head, also, Clint thinks, to glance at Natasha, but he locks eyes with Clint instead, long enough for Clint to see the concern. The gesture startles, then unsettles, for Loki would convey this concern only if the depth of disquiet within Natasha was remarkable. In a show of casual to rival Tony, Clint leans back in his chair and waits, muscles coiled. He knows Natasha needs no protection, neither from himself nor from Loki, but she is his partner, she is his family, and he will not abandon her to a desperate desires for the irredeemable past.

The silence endures, one second, two seconds, three, and then Tony leans forward, eyeing Steve as he says, “You want to find the guy who deliberately ran away from you the last time that he saw you?”

Not bothering to hide his sigh, Steve turns to Tony and says, “He would know more than anyone what Doom is up to. If they’re not working together, then it’s likely that Bucky at least knows what he’s doing, given their mutual connection to Anna. If he knows, he would—”

“What?” Tony asks. “Help us? What about his actions indicate any desire to help? Is it when he shot Natasha? Or when he shoved Sif off a building in Paris?”

“That wasn’t him,” Steve says, the words clipped and taut. “He’s been brainwashed—”

“—into wanting to kill us, right?” Bruce asks. Steve looks at him, the full force of the Captain in the gaze, but Bruce merely raises a brow, unruffled yet unyielding. “I’m sorry, Steve, but finding him doesn’t sound like the best idea right now if he’s unstable.”

“But what else can we do?” Thor asks. “We know not where Doom is located. Heimdall cannot search for him here. He must keep his eye fixed on Asgard’s borders.” At the claim, Loki shifts in his seat; his chair legs scrape the floor, the metal screech stilling Thor, who grits his teeth but refuses to rise to the bait. Glancing at Tony, he says, “Is this man not easier to track than Doom since he cannot teleport?”

“He would be,” Steve says. “Especially… Especially…” He hesitates, and Clint waits. His eyes flit to Natasha, as though against his will. The two stare at each other, Natasha as censored as Steve is open, his desperation blunt and bright. But he does not relent. Breathing in, he licks his lips and then finishes, the words collected and sure, “Especially if Natasha helped us find him.”

The team turns to look at Natasha. She bears the scrutiny, or ignores the scrutiny, her eyes never deviating from Steve. But the inscrutable mask flickers, and in the flicker, Clint sees pity in her eyes. For Steve. He does, too, and he bristles under the assessment. “Look, Natasha, I know you don’t want to—”

“He’s here.”

Her claim snaps the hushed stillness blanketing the room. The murmur of confusion and the hiss of surprise jostle for supremacy in all around the table, except for Loki. He stares at the table, no shock in his eyes, just resignation, and Clint wonders when he knew about Winter and his past with Natasha. Before Russia? During? Anna must have mentioned him, knowledge her weapon of choice and knowledge of Winter the surest way to goad Loki and thus Natasha. Clint prefers this to the alternative, Natasha informing him on her own. 

Tony recovers first. “He’s _what_?” he asks, leaning forward to peer at Natasha.

“Here,” she says. “He turned himself in yesterday. Said he wants to help with Doom.”

“And you believed him?”

Natasha shakes her head. “I haven’t spoken to him. This is what Maria said.”

“Do you believe it?” Bruce asks.

Natasha looks at Bruce, silent. Clint knows the silence does not derive from doubt; by now, she’s assessed the situation and rendered her judgment about Winter. She hesitates at the consequences of her verdict, for her or for Steve, maybe for the both of them and for Loki, too. At the thought of Loki, Clint glances at him again and finds him staring at Sif, his gaze unreadable. Another moment passes and then Natasha breathes in and says to Bruce, “No.” 

The response spurs Steve into action. “Why not?” he asks. “If you haven’t spoken to him?”

Natasha arches a brow. “Because I know him.”

“No, you know the fake person that the Academy made him into.”

Natasha presses her lips together, smothering the sigh that Clint knows has welled within her. “He’s not your friend, Steve,” she says, striving for calm. “He hasn’t been for a long time.”

“But he can be again. We just have to talk to him.”

Natasha shakes her head.

“Why not, Agent Romanov?” Maria asks as she strides into the room. She stops at the table but does not sit, choosing instead to stand between Tony and Steve. There she waits for Natasha to respond, her arms crossed over her chest, assuming the air of command previously projected by Fury, but the gesture fails to intimidate. Natasha remains silent. After a moment, Maria raises a brow and says, “Agent, I asked you a question. Why—”

“Do you mean besides the fact that he asked to speak to Sif rather than me, Agent Hill?”

The revelation ripples around the table. Steve straightens, glancing at Sif, who stares at Natasha, eyes wide with shock. Thor leans forward, his brows drawn together, and Tony and Bruce glance at each other, communicating their confusion in a series of gestures. Jane looks at Thor as Darcy looks at Sif, and into this silence Loki laughs. The sound, so unexpected, ratchets up the tension another notch, but Clint merely quirks a brow, watching as Loki looks at Natasha, the admiration in his eyes keen and heated. She shrugs in response, unrepentant of some unknown deed; to this, Loki smiles, and in this moment, Clint understands, even more than at the cage when he saw past his rage and discerned the truth within Loki, now he understands the appeal that Loki holds for Natasha and that Natasha holds for him. The pain hurts less than Clint anticipated, no longer a sharp bite, fresh and searing, but a dull ache from an old wound. For the first time since the confrontation at the cage, Clint thinks that he might just be okay. 

The thought would make him smile were it not for the look Maria sends Natasha now.

“Yes,” she says to Natasha. “Besides that.”

The cool tone affects Natasha about as much as the crossed arms. Turning from Maria, she looks at Steve. A moment passes in which she regards him and then she says, “You say we can convince Winter to help us? How? Doom wants to destroy Asgard. Asgard means nothing to Winter. He wouldn’t care whether it existed or was obliterated.”

Steve holds her gaze. “Doom also wants to kill you.”

“So does Winter.”

“But he didn’t,” Steve says, and Clint sees both Natasha and Loki tense. Steve sees as well, and he pounces upon the revealed emotion. “In the army, Bucky was the best sharpshooter we had. He wouldn’t miss, especially not at the range that you indicated in your report. Which means he might’ve been ordered to kill you, but he doesn’t want to kill you, and we both know the reason why.”

Absolute silence follows the claim, less, Clint thinks, for the desire to know the reason, and more for the fact that the reason, or the mention of it, has caused Natasha to clench her right hand. She glares at Steve, but Steve does not relent, and Clint would respect the determination if it did not come at the expense of Natasha and an issue that she clearly does not want to discuss. As it is, he eases forward, abandoning the pretense of nonchalance, and stares at Steve, waiting, waiting for the push across the line.

The push, of course, begins with Tony, who never met a line he wouldn’t gleefully obliterate. “I don’t know the reason,” he says, swiveling in his chair to face Natasha.

She sends him a look that would wither a lesser man. “It’s not pertinent,” she begins.

“But it is,” Steve says, desperation swelling, bursting within him, pushing him forward, as far as he can go, his eyes intent upon Natasha. “It is. You just don’t want to admit it because you feel guilty. You don’t want to think about what happened between the two of you, and that’s why you don’t want to talk to him even though you, more than any of us, can persuade him to help us. But this isn’t just about you, Natasha. Doom killed Fury. He wants to destroy Asgard. You can’t put yourself before the team.” 

The charge rings through the room. Clint sees Natasha pale; she compresses her lips, but she says nothing, the surest sign that the wound struck deep, and as he turns back to Steve, Clint sees red. “You mean like you?” he asks. He waits for Steve to look at him, and he knows he should draw breath, he knows he should cool the rage burning within him, but instead he says when Steve meets his eyes, “Are you sure this is about helping the team, or are you putting your wish to have your friend back above what’s good for the rest of us?”

“What’s good for the rest of us,” Maria says, “is interrogating Winter, even if all we learn is his approach to all this.” She turns back to Natasha and raises a brow. “And that is what you do best, isn’t it? Hostile interrogation? Isn’t that why Fury allowed you to stay?”

The mention of Fury, of this moment, so key to Clint and Natasha, a moment to which Maria has no claim, never witnessing it, never factoring into the decision to bring Natasha in or to let her stay, enrages Clint. He moves to stand, but he stills when he feels a foot press down on his own. 

Natasha. 

Clint hesitates. Maria regards him, her brow still raised, now in expectation for what he will do. And what will he do? Punch her? Punch Steve? As soon as he thinks it, the idea loses its appeal, though the anger remains. However wrong they may be, Clint knows they want to do the right thing, just right for them and not for Natasha, and what is right for Natasha now is for Clint not to punch Maria or Steve. The conflict would only escalate, Maria might throw him in the brig, and if she’s going to force Natasha to interrogate Winter, Clint is going to be there. 

He leans back in his chair, a show, again, of casual. From the corners of his eyes, he sees Darcy exhale. A pang of guilt darts through him; her first day as their liaison and he nearly devolves the meeting into a brawl. He hopes she understands, Natasha, he knows, and how he feels about her an understandable issue for Darcy. 

Natasha removes her foot from his. Eyes still on Maria, she says, “I can’t interrogate Winter.”

“Why not?” Maria asks. “Aren’t you supposed to be the best?”

“I am,” Natasha says. “But who do you think taught me?”

They stare at each other, at an impasse, and Clint prepares himself for round three when Sif turns to Maria and says, “I will question this man. Winter.”

Maria regards Sif through narrowed eyes. “I’m not sure—”

“He has asked for me, has he not?” Sif asks, arching a brow. 

Maria does not respond, her silence confirmation. Beside her, Steve shifts in his seat. Sif looks at him; he meets her eyes and opens his mouth to speak, only to close it and then open it once more, unease clear in the quick swallow before he speaks. “I don’t know,” he says. “Can you—” 

“Can I what?” Sif asks, the question a stiff, sharp rap in the air. “Ask a mortal man questions? I believe I am capable of so small a feat.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Steve says, a flush coloring his cheeks. 

“Then what did you mean?”

Steve flounders, searching for the words to explain his hesitation. One second, two seconds pass; as the time ticks away, Sif tilts her chin into the air and straightens in her seat, and Clint prepares himself again, this time for fight two, but before she can speak, Loki sighs, loudly, dramatically, and all eyes turn to him. 

“He meant, dear Sif, that you are noble and forthright and have little patience for manipulation, yet being noble, forthright, and having little patience for manipulation may be detriments when facing a man such as Winter.”

Now Sif colors. “Then what is required?” she asks, this question as barbed as her last to Steve.

A beat passes and then Loki smiles. 

“You?” Tony asks. 

Loki raises a brow. “Can you think of an alternative? Natasha cannot speak with Winter, yet Agent Hill stated that someone of her skill is required. As you so astutely informed me in New York, you lack the ability to appeal to one’s humanity—”

“I never said—”

“Banner jumps at his own shadow when he is not the Hulk,” Loki continues, unimpressed by the glare Tony sends him for the interruption. “The Captain suffers from the same issue as Sif, and Thor only feels comfortable with manipulation when it comes to his family. Jane must continue her work, and if Agent Hill truly felt confident in her abilities as leader, she would already have interrogated Winter as Fury did me when I resided in the cage.”

At that, Loki finishes, and Clint almost feels the need to applaud. In the span of half a minute, he has insulted nearly everyone. He silenced Tony, a feat Clint thought impossible; he caused Bruce to sigh and Steve to close his eyes; he made Thor clench his jaw so hard Clint though he would crack some teeth. Maria simply scowls while Darcy gapes at Loki, half impressed, Clint knows, at his ability to so thoroughly anger so many people so quickly. 

“There’s still Darcy,” Tony says, refusing to concede. “And Clint. Darcy loves to talk, and unlike you, Clint’s not questionably evil. What about them?”

“Yeah,” Clint says, twisting in his chair to face Loki. He smirks when Loki looks at him. “What about me?”

“Us,” Darcy says from beside him. 

Before Loki can respond, Maria says, “While I appreciate your enthusiasm, Agent Lewis, you have yet to receive the needed training for hostile interrogation. Agent Barton, though, you will accompany Loki and Sif and oversee the questioning.” 

Clint nods, his eyes on Loki. Loki returns the stare, a faint trace of a smirk twisting his lips.

Maria continues. “I’ve ordered the Carrier to fly to Latveria. If the interrogation yields nothing, then we begin our search for Doom there. We’ll reconvene when we arrive.”

As soon as Maria turns, her signal for dismissal, Natasha shoves back from the table and leaves the room. Steve does the same, but from the opposite door. Twin slams sound through the room as both doors bang shut. Glancing at Loki, Clint finds his own concern for Natasha reflected at him. He wants to go talk to her, but he knows the interrogation with Winter pulls rank, not just for the mission against Doom, but for Natasha, too. But still—

“Someone should go talk to her.”

Clint turns to Darcy as the rest of the table disperses. She’s staring off in the direction Natasha left, a furrow between her brows, the same look that she sent Clint before he unleashed his past upon her in her eyes. A normal man faced with this course of action might hesitate, his new love, or could be a love, will probably be, at least Clint hopes, talking to the woman that he used to love, or still does, just not as much, or differently, Clint doesn’t know for sure, but it doesn’t because he knows that Darcy can help Natasha as much as she helped him, so he doesn’t hesitate when he says to her, “Yes. Someone should.”

Darcy nods and then stills when she realizes he’s referring to her. “Me? You want me to talk to her?”

Clint nods.

“But won’t she, like, kill me with her brain for meddling? She doesn’t exactly seem down with the talking.”

He tries not to smile, but fails. “No,” he says. “She’s not. But she likes you.”

Darcy blinks at that, thrown. “Really?”

“Yeah. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t have told you all those things about me before.”

Darcy blinks again. “Oh.” She purses her lips as she processes the information. It takes only a few seconds, then the light in her eyes brightens and she gives a curt nod. “Cool.” 

Clint watches as she stands and shoves what she brought back into her bag. Turning to him, she grins and says, “Have fun interrogating,” before heading for the door. He follows her progress across the room, smiling, though he knows he shouldn’t because he can feel Loki watching him, but he does anyway. He has to. He can’t not. 

She makes him smile.

Glancing at Loki, Clint expects to find derision in his eyes, at the very least the beginnings of a taunt, but instead he detects quiet assessment. Before the realization settles, Sif eases over to sit beside them and she says to Loki, “So, what is your intent regarding Winter?”

Loki quirks a brow at that. “Who says I have a plan?”

“I do,” Clint says. “Why else would you have volunteered?”

Loki shrugs as he stands. “Curiosity. Boredom. Perhaps the simple pleasure of seeing Stark go apoplectic at the notion.”

“And because you have a plan,” Clint says again as he and Sif rise to follow.

Loki glances at him, his eyes bright with amusement. “And, Barton,” he says as they leave the room, “because I have a plan.”

*


	41. A White Blank Page and a Swelling Rage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The man in the cage stops pacing and turns to Bruce. He wears dark pants tucked military style into his boots and a long-sleeved black shirt, though one sleeve, his right, is missing, exposing a gleaming metal arm with a red star high on his shoulder. The man, Bruce doesn’t know whether to refer to him as Bucky or Winter given the dissension in the team as to his identity, examines him. The assessment, quick, cool, and impersonal, takes ten seconds, not enough time for Bruce to reconsider the plan, if this could be considered a plan as plans usually derive from careful consideration, and neither carefulness nor consideration factored into this decision. Just instinct. 
> 
> Whether succumbing to instinct proceeds from too much time spent as the Other Guy or too much time spent around Tony, Bruce doesn’t know. He suspects both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title from "White Blank Page" by Mumford and Sons.
> 
> I've also referred to the deleted scene between Loki & Clint from the movie.

The door to the conference room slams behind Steve. A second later, he hears another, Natasha through the far door that leads to the training room. The sound stills him, cooling the anger in his chest. He knows he pushed too hard, she’ll probably never forgive him for claiming that she was putting herself before the team, but what else could he have done? Bucky spent seventy years at the mercy of the Academy, the good man who cared for Steve, who defended him, who gave him a family when his mother died, displaced by a soulless killing machine. To allow this to continue even one moment longer, to not fight for Bucky, this Steve could never have done. 

But the price, higher than Steve anticipated. He knew they would resist. Especially Natasha. And if Natasha resisted, so would Clint and Loki. But he thought, maybe, that Tony would see reason. Bruce, too. They said yes to Loki. How can talking to Bucky be more dangerous to the team than allowing Loki a place at their table?

_What about his actions indicate any desire to help? Is it when he shot Natasha?_

_Or when he shoved Sif off a building in Paris?_

Thought of Sif brings Steve to a halt. She did not question his need to find Bucky. She supported him. She helped him. And how did he repay her?

_I don’t know. Can you—_

_Can I what? Ask a mortal man questions? I believe I am capable of so small a feat._

_That’s not what I meant._

_Then what did you mean?_

Doubt. Steve closes his eyes and leans back against the wall. The first thing he learned about her, what allowed him to connect with her, to form the tentative beginnings of a friendship, was how she suffered from doubt in Asgard. Doubt prevented her from pursuing the paths she desired. Doubt was the entire reason she wanted to leave Asgard and remain here on Earth. 

With him.

_I desire to know the opportunity that this realm has provided for Thor and Loki. The freedom._

_I desire to know, to know…_

To know love. 

With him.

And now Steve doubted her. 

How will she ever forgive him?

“Captain?”

Steve opens his eyes. Thor stands a few feet from him, his head tilted in concern. Pushing off the wall, Steve clears his throat and tries to respond, but he can’t. The word, a simple ‘Yes’ catches in his throat, clogged at the thought of Sif angry with him, hating him. He tries again, but then he remembers how Natasha paled after his charge of her selfishness; and he remembers Tony in the storage unit, his eyes raw and red from the loss of Fury; and he remembers how Bucky trembled in Paris as he began to remember, and he remembers how he failed, how he didn’t do anything, when Bucky ran.

_A hero? Like you? You're a laboratory experiment, Rogers._

_Everything special about you came out of a bottle._

“Captain?”

Steve looks at Thor. He opens his mouth, but still the words don’t come. For a moment, Thor regards him. His brow furrows and then he takes a step forward and says, placing a warm hand on his arm, “Please follow me.”

Steve nods and follows, perhaps another failure, but if the leader of the Avengers were to follow anyone, wouldn’t that person be the soon-to-be-king of Asgard? Thor leads them to the elevator where he presses the button for the top deck. As the elevator rises, he says nothing, keeping his eyes averted, allowing Steve time to compose himself. The tightness in his throat abates some as the distance grows between him and the conference room. 

The elevator doors slide open and they walk down the hall, toward the stern, and it is then Steve knows where they are going. “The observation deck?” he asks.

Thor nods. “Were it not for the current altitude, I would suggest time outside. This will have to suffice.” He pushes the door and they enter a rectangular room that spans the ship from starboard to port. Chairs dot the room, yet no one else occupies the space. Reinforced glass composes the side and front walls, providing a clear, expansive view of sunlit cloud and sky. The sight allows Steve to breathe.

As he does, Thor moves to one of the chairs in the corner and sits, his back stiff and his hands clenched when he places them on his knees. Steve recalls the tension within Thor at the meeting, increasing each time Loki moved, culminating with his claim that Thor only manipulated family. Another failure. Steve should have realized that if Sif reacted as strongly as she had to Thor’s desire to bring change to Asgard, Loki would react doubly, if not triply, so.

Steve crosses to the accompanying chair. “I gather from the meeting that Loki didn’t take to your idea to change Asgard?” he asks as he sits. At the questioning look, Steve clarifies. “Sif told me about your conversation.”

A rueful smile appears on Thor’s face. “No, he did not.” He glances at Steve and says, “But I did not ask for you to accompany me so that we could speak of my troubles.”

“You brought me here so we can talk about mine.”

Thor nods. “Mine concern only Loki and myself at the present. And Sif. Yours, however—”

“Could rip apart the team?”

Thor nods again. “I thought perhaps I could assist you as you have done so ably for me these past few months. I know something of attempting to aid wayward brothers and the resistance you may garner in the process.”

Now Steve smiles, his lips twisting into a matching wry grin. “That you do,” he says. “So what do you advise?”

Rather than responding, Thor hesitates. He eyes Steve, his expression subdued. Steve feels the smile on his face start to fade and it does, completely, when Thor eventually says, “Leave him be.”

“What?”

“Leave him be,” Thor says again. He leans toward Steve, earnestness shading the gravity of his expression. “You desire so strongly to help your friend,” he continues, “but if you speak with him now, he will see this sentiment and wield it as a blade against you.”

Steve blinks, his brain swerving to catch the twist. “I—”

“Anticipated the opposite perhaps? An encouragement for immediate action to facilitate your reconciliation?” Thor raises a brow and waits for Steve to respond, but Steve merely looks at him, irritated, his jaw clenched. “Help now is beyond your capacity,” he continues, his voice softening at Steve’s glare. “I could not help Loki when he designed to acquire the Tesseract. He wandered in darkness I could not begin to fathom. So too does Winter.”

“This is why he needs help,” Steve says. He hears the desperation creep into his voice again, and he knows Thor does, too, his claim about sentiment already proven. “I can’t—”

“You are not the one to help him,” Thor says, calm in the face of Steve’s agitation. “You know nothing of what he has experienced. Allow another to aid him first, one who understands.”

“You mean Loki?” Steve asks, unable to conceal his incredulity. “You actually expect Loki to help him? With how Bucky feels for Natasha—”

“No. I expect Loki to do what he must in order to allow Agent Barton to help your friend.”

The admission surprises Steve, but only for a moment because, as soon as Thor says it, Steve knows that he speaks the truth. If anyone on the team understands the trauma of a divided mind, of acting against your will, it’s Clint. Clint who loves Natasha. Clint who saved Natasha from the mad grip of the Red Room. Clint who is as skilled a sharpshooter as Bucky, only with a bow, not a gun. He can help and, more importantly, he will help, Clint, Steve knows, a good man.

The anxiety that had gripped Steve since the first moment he saw Bucky alive, since he learned from Natasha that he had turned himself in, abates. He leans back in his chair and breathes. This is how he should have approached Natasha for aid, highlighting the parallels that exist between Bucky and Clint, how his need to save Bucky from the Academy is the same as hers to save Clint from Loki. Perhaps this is how he can try to apologize, to atone for how he spoke to her at the meeting. 

Perhaps, then, she will forgive him.

“Upon Agent Barton reaching your friend,” Thor says, and here Steve opens his eyes and meets his gaze, the expression bright and intent, “then you do all within your power to help. No matter the resistance he or others may show. Never abate, though you may, at times, aggravate relations rather than ameliorate them.”

Steve quirks a brow. “Like wanting to change a place that hasn’t changed for millennia?”

Thor nods. “Loki believes Asgard cannot be changed and that I am a fool for trying. Yet Odin at first believed the same about Loki, that he would never deviate from the path that he chose, the path of ruin for himself and for Asgard.” Thor shakes his head. His gaze drifts to the clouds that glow in the midday sun. Grief passes over his face, a quick flicker, a cloud before the sun, and then his jaw sets. “If I convinced the All Father to bestow upon Loki a second chance,” he says now, “I can convince Loki to do likewise for Asgard.”

The determination that he sees resonates within Steve, though no shadow of failure blights the resolve in Thor as it does in him. Swallowing down his doubt, he leans forward and says to Thor, “If it makes you feel better, Sif thinks you’re right. She just says you just have horrible timing.”

A wisp of a smile appears. “She is not wrong,” Thor says. “For this, I apologize. My intent had not been to halt the development of your relationship by asking for her aid.”

“You didn’t. Or at least you hadn’t. She wasn’t going to choose. But now…” Steve stops, the memory of Sif staring at him, her chin raised in anger surfacing. He looks away, down at his hands, a flush rising along his neck. He feels Thor stare at him, in concern, he knows, which worsens his shame, Thor the first to support Sif in her endeavor to defy the limits placed upon her by society. “You were there,” he says after a moment. “You heard what I said to her. How I didn’t…” Steve stops again and grimaces. “Loki was right. I’ve seen Natasha work, and if Bucky is half as talented as she is… I was afraid he’d use her, hurt her somehow, to get to me.”

Silence greets his admission. Steve glances at Thor and finds his lips pursed as he processes what Steve has revealed. Then he says, “Perhaps. Or perhaps he simply desires to talk to her. A neutral party.”

“But Natasha said he didn’t want to help.”

“True, yet as I for Loki, she may reside too closely to Winter to observe him clearly. The man she knows may not desire to help, but the man you know, the true man, may. As you said, this Academy ordered Winter to slay Natasha, yet he did not. He chose not. He may do so again.”

Steve turns again to the clouds. He feels hope spark within him again, and he cannot resist the flame. “I hope so.”

“Have faith, Captain.”

Steve looks at Thor, the wry grin resurfacing. “So says the god.”

Now Thor smiles. “Therefore it must be, not simply for Winter, but for Sif as well. If you explain to her what you have to me, she will understand.” He pauses and a mischievous glint appears in his eyes. “Or if not,” he continues, “slay for her a beast of epic proportions, and she will not be able to deny your regard.”

“A beast?” Steve says, eyeing Thor. “Slay a beast?”

Thor nods. “A beast.”

They stare at each other, Thor, his face earnest, a stark contrast to the gleam in his eyes, Steve, one brow raised in uncertainty, and then Thor turns, laughter beginning to shake his shoulders. A beat passes and then Steve feels laughter well within him, as bright and blithe as the sunlight in the clouds. 

*

“Hi.”

The man in the cage stops pacing and turns to Bruce. He wears dark pants tucked military style into his boots and a long-sleeved black shirt, though one sleeve, his right, is missing, exposing a gleaming metal arm with a red star high on his shoulder. The man, Bruce doesn’t know whether to refer to him as Bucky or Winter given the dissension in the team as to his identity, examines him. The assessment, quick, cool, and impersonal, takes ten seconds, not enough time for Bruce to reconsider the plan, if this could be considered a plan as plans usually derive from careful consideration, and neither carefulness nor consideration factored into this decision. Just instinct. 

Whether succumbing to instinct proceeds from too much time spent as the Other Guy or too much time spent around Tony, Bruce doesn’t know. He suspects both.

He feels Tony would approve.

“You’re not S.H.I.E.L.D.,” the man says after another moment.

Bruce shakes his head. “I guess you could say I work with them, but that’s not exactly true.”

“Why not?”

“You’re standing in the cage they built for me.”

At that, the man narrows his eyes. He walks toward the glass, stopping about a foot away. Bruce withstands his stare, though the itch to hide, to fade into the background, still scratches at his gut, even after New York, after the team and finding a place of sorts at the Tower. Still, he squirms.

Seconds pass and the man continues to stare, no discernible connection yet found between the nearly indestructible cage and the nebbish man before him. Bruce would smile at the confusion except the memory of Natasha with her hand clenched on the table as Steve pleaded with her surfaces in his mind, and the desire abates.

“I understand the confusion,” he says, starting toward the cage. “I don’t look like much now, but sometimes I get… bigger. And greener.”

Realization drains the color from the man’s face. He takes a step back from the glass, his eyes on Bruce, sharp and wary. “Banner.”

Bruce nods. Discomfort wars with necessity within him. He hates the fear that he sees within the man, seen in nearly everyone since the accident, save for Betty and Tony, Steve and now Pepper. He hates having to be here, this man more victim than enemy, powerless against the forces that seized his body and stole his mind. The team should be helping him, yet Bruce knows that they can’t, not yet, the weight of his tragedy too much for Steve, the desperation within Steve pushing the team to the brink. Natasha with her clenched fist. Loki with his sharp eyes. Clint and his cool regard and Tony with his edged concern. Bruce knows this must be done so that they can help, and he also knows that this will only succeed if the man fears him, so he banishes the discomfort as best he can and presses on. He presses forward.

“I’ve never really done this before,” he says, continuing toward the cage. The man watches him, his gaze focused and controlled. At the perusal, the urge to fidget rises within Bruce; he shoves his hands in his pockets, fidgeting, he is sure, counterproductive to his ends. “Threatening, I mean,” he says now. “I don’t really like violence. I’m still adjusting to the idea that some things have to be solved that way. Things like this.”

Bruce stops then, the same distance from the glass as the man, who, save for his initial step back, has not moved. Bruce would respect this refusal to bow beneath the normally irrepressible touch of terror, but he needs terror now, so, swallowing his repulsion, he pitches his voice low and says to Winter, “I would tell you what the Other Guy will do to you if you don’t stop your plan, but I honestly don’t know. He might rip your arm out of its socket. It’s shiny. He might like it. He might want to beat you to death with it. Or he might just crush your head in his hands. He’s unpredictable that way.”

The unpredictable Id. The unquenchable rage. So alien to the scrupulously constructed spy, the man before him like Natasha, Bruce assumes, no word or motion wasted. 

Which is how Bruce knows that, beneath the imperturbable shell, Winter is terrified. 

After all, so was Natasha. 

“I have no plan,” the man says now, strangely without accent, Russian or Brooklyn. Perhaps the Academy programmed it out of him, or maybe he speaks in flat tones because Bruce does, the mirroring an attempt to keep him at ease and win his favor. Bruce reveals nothing, and the man says, his voice tinged with the right touch of earnestness, “I’m here to help.”

“Yes, you do,” Bruce says, “and no, you aren’t. But you will. Help. When they come to talk to you, you’ll tell them what they want to know, or I’ll come back.” He pauses and allows a smile to come to his face, a cruel twist of his lips dredged straight from his nightmares. From his past. “Or I won’t come back,” he says. “The Other Guy will.”

The man regards him a long moment, processing the promise, the threat. Then he says, his voice quiet, “Why do this, if they want to put you in here?”

Bruce eyes the cage. He wishes the reconstruction surprised him. Pepper had yelled for an hour about it after Tony had informed them, but Bruce merely shrugged and returned to the lab. He knew the cage was as much for Loki as it was for him and for all the other threats mutant, alien, and superhuman lurking in the shadows of the minds of the powerful yet powerless. Besides, if S.H.I.E.L.D. or any other group wanted to capture Bruce to put him in the cage, he knows they would fail. 

Immensely.

Returning his gaze to Winter, he says, “S.H.I.E.L.D. might want to put me in there, but I’m not here for them. I’m here for the team. For Steve and Natasha.” 

The man looks at him. “Why?”

Bruce hesitates, information power, but he threatened to transform into his heavier, angrier self not two minutes ago and rip the man’s arm out of his socket so that he could beat him to death with it, so what harm could the truth be now? Drawing in a breath, he searches for the words and then he begins. “Most people, when they realize who I am, or what I am, they react like you did. But not Steve. He shook my hand. He focused on _me_ , not the Other Guy. And that…” A pause as Bruce shakes his head, unable to articulate the significance of this, this acceptance, first from Steve and then from Tony, lately now from Pepper and also Thor. Betty accepted him, too, but the ties of their past, from _before_ , always lingered in his mind as the reason why. With the team, though, there is no past, but there is still acceptance, this comradeship oxygen to a suffocating man.

Bruce glances at Winter. “Do you remember what that’s like? To be treated like a man instead of a mindless beast? Although I suppose in your case,” he says, his gaze falling to the metal arm, “it would be a mindless machine, programmed to kill.”

The man does not respond, the only discernable reaction the slight convulsion of his hand by his side. A moment passes and then he says, “And Natasha? Do you love her as Loki does?”

Bruce shakes his head. 

“Then why?”

_So, this all seems horrible._

_I’ve seen worse._

“At first,” he says, “she was like Steve. But then I chased her down this ship and tried to kill her. I almost did. I remember her telling me, before, that she would save me, that she would help me not be him. Help me stay the man.” He shakes his head again and sighs. He remembers most of his time as the Other Guy in New York, punching the first worm, punching Thor, smashing Loki on the floor of the penthouse. Then, for one incandescent moment, he controlled the rage. It did not control him, not like it did here, when the strength of his wrath shattered even memory itself. Those moments that he can recall, like the one with Natasha, the final moment, her against the wall, bleeding and winded, pierce him like fractured glass. “It didn’t help.” 

The man stares at him. Bruce thinks he sees something, some flicker of emotion, in his eyes. At the meeting, Steve implied that Winter loved Natasha, that this was why he had not killed her in Russia, and normally Bruce would use this, he would use Winter’s love for Natasha as leverage, love more powerful than hate and anger, Betty proving this to him, pulling him from the brink so many times, but he has no time to talk about love and guilt and rage and loss, Loki, he surmises, nearly finished with his preparations, and Bruce being here when he arrives sure to help nothing, Loki, after all, still angry with him for New York. And besides, as much as Bruce tries to deny the fact, he was always Bruce in those moments that Betty soothed the beast, the Other Guy originating from within him. Yet someone else imposed Winter upon Bucky, and Winter might love Natasha but Bucky might not, or maybe Bucky loves Natasha and cares for Steve but Winter does not, so the only thing that will reach both, the man and the machine, is fear. They share the same body; they both want to survive, and because of this, Bruce smashes his hand against the glass and watches as the man jumps back. 

Bruce remembers the team, how fragile their bond is, strained first by Loki and then by Doom and now by Winter, suffering the loss of Fury, and how he feels that maybe, maybe, maybe they, having fought gods and beasts and superpowered men, having lived lives as cruel as his, could someday, he hopes, be his family. So he leans close to the glass and says, as intent upon the man as he is upon Bruce, “Do you want to know why I chased Natasha down this ship and tried to kill her? I did it because someone else stood in this cage and tried to manipulate us as you’re doing now. I didn’t like it then. The only reason that the first guy survived is because he’s a god, but I’m starting to believe that even that wouldn’t matter in the long run. Not with me.” He pauses and looks at Winter. “You, though, are not a god. So stop this, or I’m going to get angry. And believe me,” he says as he turns away, “you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”

*

The knife sinks into the target, the slice of the blade, a soft swish through paper, the only sound in the room. Natasha turns to the prep table and lifts another, the hilt cool in her hands. Breathing in, she focuses on the sensation, the weight in her palm, the gleam of light at the tip of the blade, but still her thoughts persist.

_He might’ve been ordered to kill you, but he doesn’t want to kill you._

_And we both know the reason why._

Clearing her throat, she regards the next target, a small circle the size of an apple high in the air. Easy for her and has been since she was eight, but the meeting drags at her mind, redirecting her focus from the present to the past, to the desperation within Steve as he leaned in for the kill.

_You just don’t want to admit it because you feel guilty._

_But this isn’t just about you, Natasha._

Natasha narrows her eyes.

_This isn’t just about you, Natasha._

_This isn’t just about you._

She throws the knife. It pierces the bottom of the target, but not enough to stick, and she tries not to find symbolism in the blade in freefall, an impossible task for one trained since youth to locate meaning in the dangerous and obscure. The knife clatters against the floor, the blade screeching as it scrapes the tiles, and Natasha watches as it flips through the air and imbeds in the wall, light wavering off the edge as it wobbles and then stills.

Sighing, she returns to the table and claims the next in the line. As her hand closes over the hilt, she hears the door to the training room open behind her. Tony, perhaps. Who else would have the courage to talk to her now, Clint and Loki interrogating Winter, Thor, she is sure, avoiding her until relations improve between himself and Loki? “Go away,” she says, still facing the table.

“That would be the smart choice,” Darcy says, “but that’s not really what I’m known for, so…”

Natasha glances over her shoulder and finds Darcy standing just inside the door, hands clutching the strap of her bag. A smile starts on her face, but then she spots the knife in Natasha’s hand. A second slides by, and Natasha waits, but rather than fear, she sees pity in Darcy’s gaze. 

Unexpected.

Turning now to face Darcy, she narrows her eyes and says, “Why pity?”

To her credit, Darcy does not play dumb. “You’re choosing to deal with your pain by throwing sharp objects at paper. How could I not?”

Natasha raises a brow. “Paper’s better than a person.”

“True,” Darcy says, without missing a beat. “I mean, there have been plenty of people that I’ve wanted to taze before for being major league assholes. I get the impulse.”

“But?”

“But,” Darcy says, punctuating the word with a short step forward, “tazing people just leaves you with pissed off people who’ve been electrocuted, and throwing knives at paper gets you nothing but torn paper, so it’s not the most productive of options.”

“I know your option,” Natasha says, turning back to the paper targets. She shifts the knife in her hand and eyes again the small circle in the corner. “Talking leaves you vulnerable.”

“You talk to Clint.”

Natasha stills at the claim. Then her hand tightens on the hilt. She pivots, facing Darcy once more, who holds her gaze but who grips her bag so hard that her knuckles stand stark against her skin. The sight extinguishes the nascent rage within Natasha. Sighing, she places the knife back on the table and says, “I do, but not about everything.” She pauses and glances at Darcy. “And you’re not Clint.”

“No,” Darcy says, her grip loosening on her bag. “But I listened to Clint before when he needed it, and I think it made him feel better. All I’m offering is to do the same for you.” 

She finishes and waits, expectant for a response. Natasha regards her a moment, her claim about Clint echoing in her mind. She knows Darcy speaks the truth. Why else would Clint have sent her here if she had not helped him? But the thought of more words revolts Natasha, especially words about her and Winter and their past, so she shakes her head and turns away, her gaze falling once more upon the table. She’ll have to talk. Eventually. Clint will find her later, maybe Steve, his eyes burdened with an apology. For now, though, she desires silence.

“Okay,” Darcy says, and Natasha must close her eyes to restrain the sigh. “Plan B.” She hears a rustle behind her, the slide of a zipper as Darcy opens her bag. A thunk, metal on plastic, sounds through the air and then Darcy says, “Instead of talking, you can teach me how to use this.”

Opening her eyes, Natasha turns to find Darcy holding a gun before her. S.H.I.E.L.D. standard issue, gripped by two fingertips along the butt. Natasha eyes the gun and then Darcy, who shrugs and says, “It’s still destroying stuff, but with a purpose. You’ll be teaching me, not throwing knives at walls, so that’ll be good for you, and the wall, and I’ll be learning, which will be good for me because I won’t accidentally shoot Clint. Or Tony. Or me. Or you,” she says, glancing at Natasha.

At first, Natasha does not respond. Then she crosses her arms over her chest and says, “No one has ever asked me to help train them before.”

Darcy frowns. “Why not?”

“Clint said people are afraid of me.”

“Well, yeah,” Darcy says, the beginnings of a smirk again on her face. “You’re like the ultimate badass. You could probably kill 90% of the world’s population with your pinky.”

Natasha considers the statement and then quirks a brow in acknowledgment. “You don’t seem afraid,” she says.

Darcy shrugs. “I though maybe you’d be pissed at me because I sent your best friend and your boyfriend into a literal cage match with each other, but that seems to have turned out okay. And Clint said you like me, and I trust him, so here I am.” 

_Of all the Avengers to find me first, it’s you. Isn’t that funny? I didn’t have that last conversation with everybody, you know._

_I doubted it._

_And yet here you are._

_And here you are._

_And here I am._

He smiled then, his amusement at the turn in his fortunes, at his banishment to Earth, at their paths crossing once more, tempered by indignation, by ire. The distance since then, the twists in their paths, the monster and the hunter, the killer and the liar, awe Natasha. One chance, one choice, to forge a connection, to understand.

_I don’t know what I am. I never have._

_I didn’t know either. Not at first. But I found out._

“Okay,” she says.

Darcy blinks. “Really?”

Natasha nods. Darcy smiles and starts forward, a steady stream of questions and comments about guns and spying and how they should probably rename Captain America Captain Assbutt already flooding the silence, sweeping the past back to the past on a bright, bold wave. Natasha feels her lips twitch in amusement at this turn in her world, Darcy unearthing a pen and some paper from her bag before she plops down beside the table to take notes about the gun. 

_Isn’t it funny?_

_Isn’t it funny the way the worlds turn and the fates fall?_

*

Far in the future, if Clint ever has children, and if he ever receives clearance to discuss his life as a spy with civilians, because there would be no way in hell that his children would ever be spies, then he would identify this day as the day that he finally lost his mind. He would identify this day as the day out of all of the other days in his life because it is on this day that he voluntarily chose to help Loki Odinson, attempted oppressor of the human race, the murderer of the best man that Clint has ever known, and the asshole who first stole his mind and then stole his partner, the woman that he had loved. 

Clint peers at Loki as they walk down the hall, Clint beside Loki, Loki beside Sif. He tries not to frown, but he does, this moment, save for the presence of Sif, reminiscent of that time, the time that becomes less and less muddled with each passing second, ever since he confronted Loki at the cage. The bits and flashes are becoming parts and pieces, the days between the touch of the scepter and Natasha’s final blow to his head resolving, and though he had wanted to remember, now as he remembers, Clint realizes that doesn’t want to remember, not because of what he did while under the sway of Loki, Clint coming to terms with what Loki had said at the cage, the fact that Clint had had no choice, no ability to resist the power of the scepter, but instead he doesn’t want to remember because of what he learns about Loki as the memories clarify, the glimpses of self that Loki revealed in the shadows before the mindless, dispassionate drones.

_I grow weary of scuttling in shadow. I mean to rule this world, not burrow in it._

_It’s a risk._

_Oh, yes._

As if he knows, Loki glances at him and smirks. “Second thoughts, Agent Barton?”

Clint shrugs. “Maybe. Your plans do have a tendency of failing spectacularly.”

The smirk becomes a smile. “At times,” he says. He eyes Clint then, pausing a moment before he continues, “Upon reflection, I’ve found that failure occurs when you’re fighting me. With your assistance—”

“Are you serious?” Clint asks, turning to Loki. “Do you really want to bring up the last time I helped you? Because I’ve only just stopped wanting to use your head as target practice.”

“You’ve stopped?” Sif asks, looking at Clint, the amusement in her eyes tart and barbed. “I’ve possessed that desire for centuries.”

“Which speaks either to your admirable restraint,” Loki says as they turn the corner leading to staff quarters, “or to your lamentable aim, for my head still remains atop my body.”

Sif grins. “I refrained. I feared the density within your head so immense that it would damage my weapon should I strike.”

Clint looks at Sif and they laugh. A tight smile appears on Loki’s face. Glancing at him, Clint shrugs again. “Hey,” he says, “you wanted us to help you.”

“Who said I desired your assistance?” Loki asks, eyeing him.

Clint holds his gaze. “You did.”

_You have heart._

The smirk returns. “So I did.” 

The exchange hangs in the air between them, the moment suspended, suspiciously light after the threat of disintegration in the strained smile. Clint looks at Loki, and then he _looks_ at Loki, stopping in the hall, his eyes narrowed. Loki stops, too, and raises a brow, and Clint struggles to say the dim notion that has taken root in his brain. “Is this… is this like… friends with you?” he asks.

One second passes and then another before the moment wobbles and falls, smashing on the floor. Loki turns and walks away, the edge clear in his voice when he says, “Do you think someone such as I has friends, Barton?”

“You did,” Sif says, standing beside Clint. “Long ago.”

Loki tenses at that; his step falters. Turning, he glares at Sif. She arches a brow but she does not relent, and Clint watches, fascinated, the morbid curiosity of car crashes and reality TV dictating his actions now as another part of the man behind the curtain is revealed. A beat passes and then a cold graze of a grin appears on Loki’s face. “Another failed plan from which I have learned,” he says before turning and continuing down the hall.

And Clint doesn’t want to, but he does. He feels it. 

Sympathy. 

For Loki. 

Clint grimaces at the thought, the man for so long his personal devil, haunting his dreams, but he cannot resist the trace of the outcast in the way Loki responded to Sif, Clint nothing if not an outcast for most of his life. He remembers lurking in the backs of booths at the circus, watching friends joke with one another, laughing as they lost the rigged games, watching the families go by, some smiling, more not, sinking beneath the stress of having a good time, but still together. Clint had Barney, but half the time Barney ignored him and the other half they fought, fought about staying with the circus, fought about Clint training with Trick Shot, fought about Barney leaving, which he did, eventually. And then Clint was alone, drifting, the wave of a tide against the shore. And sometimes he connected, or thought he did, but something happened, usually him; he said the wrong thing or drank too much or had to leave town, pissing off too many people in one location for him to stay. In S.H.I.E.L.D. he finally found a place, not a home, but a place to stay, one to which he belonged, and people for whom he cared.

Clint glances at Sif. She looks at Loki, her teeth clenched to prevent her from saying whatever it is she desires to say, her counterargument to his claim. He understands both the desire to argue and the need to refrain. Who the hell could _not_ argue with Loki? Even Thor and Natasha, the two who care for Loki the most, fought with him, repeatedly, sometimes physically. But what good would an argument do now, given the task ahead, the skill of Winter to exploit any division that they show? 

Sighing, Clint jogs down the hall and falls into step beside Loki. “So,” he says, “what’s your plan?”

Loki does not respond, the silence a petty one that causes Clint to grit his teeth. But he remains silent, waiting, refusing to perpetuate the cycle. His patience is rewarded; after another moment, Loki draws in a breath and says, “Clarity. There is Winter, and there is Bucky somewhere beneath. Natasha believes the first brought him here; the Captain hopes for the second. As long as the division remains, he can divide and conquer without setting foot from the cage.” At this, Loki looks at Clint, his gaze sharp, ready for the attack as he says, “A laughably easy task for the lot of you.”

“Yeah, well, you would know.”

Loki raises a brow. “As would you.” 

_He’s going to put together a team._

_They’re a threat?_

_To each other, more than likely. But if Fury can get them on track, and he might, it could throw some noise our way._

They glare at each other, the détente threatened, as always, by the sins of their mutual past, but then Clint hears Sif approach and she does for him what he just did for her. 

“How do you intend to resolve the divide?” she asks Loki.

At the question, Loki stops, and Clint realizes that they have stopped in front of Natasha’s room. Frowning, he says, “Natasha? But—”

“Not Natasha,” Loki says. He opens the door and strides into the room, and Clint feels a prick, a twinge of resentment at the comfort Loki shows with moving about her space. He holds the door for Sif and then follows them inside where he watches as Loki crosses to the mementos from the glass case strewn across the table. Clint sees the normal assortment of objects, the gun he had given Natasha the day she received her citizenship, the music, the necklace, and the doll, but it is a new addition that catches his attention: a feather. This Loki lifts from the table.

“What—” Clint says, but he does not finish for the air crackles then, green light flashes, and a woman appears before the closed door. She is tall, with auburn hair streaked with gray, and she carries herself with the grace that Clint has seen in Loki and the power he’s observed in Thor.

“Barton,” Loki says, “this is my mother, Frigga. Mother, Agent Barton.”

Frigga moves toward him, one hand outstretched, a smile on her face infused with warmth and kindness; Clint detects none of the brittle, caustic amusement that Loki shows to the world when he smiles. “It is an honor to meet you, Agent Barton,” she says, clasping his hand. “Both of my sons have spoken highly of you to me.”

At that, Clint blinks. He turns and looks at Loki, brow raised in disbelief. A beat passes and then Loki smirks. “Worry not,” he says. “I merely said you enjoyed sitting in high places.”

Clint rolls his eyes at the quip, but does not comment, disconcerted by the idea of Loki speaking well of him. Instead, he gestures to the feather and says, “What’s with that?”

Frigga responds. “It is from a creature on Asgard named Munin. He lords over memory.”

Loki holds the feather out to Clint, displaying the mangled end and the bloodied barbs. “Frigga gave this to me. Natasha had it with her when Winter shot her. It binds us. With this, Frigga and I can penetrate Winter’s mind.” 

“To do what?” Clint asks.

He expects Loki or Frigga to answer, but instead it is Sif, her voice tinged with awe. “To make him remember.”

Loki affixes her with a gaze pulled from the depth of Clint’s nightmares, the blue of his eyes too raw and too bright. She surprised him, with her deduction or with her awe, the latter, to Clint, the likeliest. After a moment, Loki nods and says, “He is Winter, and he is Bucky. If we clarify the self, we may eliminate the conflict within him and therefore with us.”

Clint glances at the feather. “May?”

Loki clenches his jaw and breathes in, the slow intake of breath indicative of thinning patience. “Yes, Barton,” he says. “May. We may resolve the division, or we may induce insanity. Magic, as you may gather from the name, is not science, and thus—”

“Can you do this?” Clint says, his own patience thinning at the sarcasm. “Yes or no? That’s all I need.”

“Why do you require this?” Frigga asks, tilting her head to peer at him. “You yourself are proof that he can.”

_You._

_You yourself._

_You yourself are proof that he can._

The words echo and reecho in his mind; layer upon layer accumulates as snow in a field, choking Clint, smothering him. He turns to Loki, whose breath catches in his chest as their eyes meet, and then Clint pulls his gun. He aims, no chest shot this time, not like the cage. This time he aims for Loki’s head. Loki could teleport away before he fired, he knows, but Clint also knows that Loki will not run, not for long, he said as much at the cage, he loves Natasha and he intends to stay, so eventually, eventually, Clint will succeed. A long-range rifle. A sniper shot. Loki may be a god, but gods die. Odin did. The Phase 2 weaponry could do it, the modified ammunition. Clint could ask Winter for tips. The man might even volunteer to help given how he feels about Natasha. 

Depending, of course, on the answer. 

_You have heart._

“What did she mean?” he asks Loki. “What did you do to me?” His hand is steady and so are the questions. And so is his gaze as he looks at Loki, who regards him quietly, the feather clasped in one hand. Clint waits, one second, two seconds, and then three before he takes a step closer. “I asked you—”

“The cage,” Loki says. 

_And then what, once you’ve killed me? Will the guilt lift from your heart?_

_Will your dreams stop?_

Clint narrows his eyes. “What about the cage?”

The response comes promptly, without sarcasm or anger, and Clint wonders if Frigga spoke the truth before, if, in some way, Loki respects him, or at least not disdain him as he does everyone else. 

_Why wouldn’t I choose you, Barton?_

“The Tesseract,” Loki says. “Traces lingered in you. I located and removed them as we spoke.”

The white noise, the persistent buzz in the back of his brain, lingering ever since Natasha pulled him back. He felt it when talking to Loki at the cage, and then he didn’t. The times when Loki demanded for him to focus, when he angered Clint or prodded him, when he manipulated him, the noise stopped. And since then, only clarity, his time with Natasha and Darcy the day before his own.

Clint’s hand tightens on the gun. His gaze drops to the feather, and he hesitates, apprehensive of the response. “You didn’t have that then. You didn’t have anything in the cage.”

“No, I didn’t,” Loki says.

“Then how?”

“The Tesseract, as before, provided entry.”

Silence then. Loki regards the gun, contemplating the barrel and the slide, the trigger and the grip. Clint sees no fear in his eyes, or anger, or the itch of discomfort that disturbed him at the cage. Instead he sees ease and conviction, and he hears the same when Loki says, “I told you at the cage that I harbored no more delusions about myself. I was a monster. Now I intend not to be, but I intend to remain myself as well, and this is what I do. This is who I am. As I did yours at the cage, I will invade Winter’s mind by force, and I do this because it must be done and no one else can, or will, do so. If some force in the future happens again to seize your mind, I will do the same to you despite your current reaction, not simply for the fact that Natasha would not let me rest until I did so, but also because you and I know that, if the situation were reversed, if she rather than Winter waited for us in the cage, her mind torn asunder by the Academy, you would demand for me to do the same because you are nothing if not practical, Barton, and, as an assassin, you cling to morality with the loosest of grips. So do you intend to shoot me now in protest or in rage, or will you help us as you intended to do when you first accompanied me down the hall?”

“How about I shoot you instead for being an arrogant prick?”

A faint smirk appears on Loki’s face. “If you feel you must.”

Clint aims the gun a moment longer and then lowers it, but his eyes do not deviate from Loki and his voice does not waver as he says, “If someone takes over my brain again, and by some twist of fate that someone is not you, I don’t care what Tasha says, you’re not allowed in. Ever. Do you understand?”

“Of course, Agent Barton.”

“No. Don’t Agent Barton me. Don’t fucking lie. You owe me. You do nothing to my mind ever again. No brainwashing, no illusions, nothing. Do you understand?”

The smirk fades. Loki stares at him, fighting, perhaps, the impulse to lie, to tell Clint yes while meaning no, the fight, more than the prompt reply before, proving the truth of Frigga’s claim. A second more passes before Loki nods, once, the movement stiff, but certain.

“Good,” Clint says, returning his gun to his holster. “Then let’s get going.”

*


	42. Puzzle with a Piece Missing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki nods as Frigga finishes, but he does not respond. He stares down at the feather, twisting it in his hands. Though he knows that Sif still observes him, the man known as the Winter Soldier closes his eyes. He breathes in and tries to banish the cold from his chest. He had anticipated an interrogation, the questioning of which Banner had spoken. This—this focus on churning minds and the truth and the lie—mystify him. Opening his eyes, he finds Loki still contemplating the feather, but, after a moment more, he looks up. But not at him, not as he anticipates.
> 
> He looks at Hawkeye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After many months, some of which were overwhelmed with work, others dedicated to finishing “Instinct Blues,” and the last to rereading “Remembrance” in preparation, I’m now back to working on “Remembrance” with the intent to finish. I thank everyone who has stuck with the story these past months for their patience and I hope the ride that I plan to come is worth it. :)
> 
> Many thanks to samantha_shakespeare for beta-ing and saving me from the typos that constantly escape my brain and for incorrect movie quotations! ☺
> 
> And now, in the words of Inigo Montoya, let me explain.
> 
> No, there is too much.
> 
> Let me sum up: After stealing arc reactor energy from Tony and killing Fury, Doom once again vanished. The team, finally gathered together on the Carrier, is now flying to Latveria to start the search to find him. However, they find themselves distracted by Winter, who has turned himself in, allegedly to help with Doom. Steve believes that he will, if they can convince him about who he is. Natasha doubts this. To try to stop their disagreement from unraveling the team even further, Bruce threatened to rip Winter’s metal arm out of his socket if he didn’t cooperate with the team and Loki, Clint, Sif, and Frigga intend to go to Winter and try to fix him. Or drive him insane in the effort. ☺

“Do you believe in magic?”

Bruce pauses in the doorway, half in and half out of the lab. Though her equipment sits before her, her notebook salvaged from her flight from Doom, the tablet provided to her by Tony, the computers and screens and smartboards allotted to them by S.H.I.E.L.D., Jane stares off into space, through the lone window affording the lab a view of the sky. Bruce closes the doors to the lab and crosses to the table at which she sits, trying to focus on her question and not on the look in Winter’s eyes as he threatened to rip his arm off.

_It’s shiny. He might like it._

“Bruce?”

Bruce blinks. Jane stares at him, her brows drawn together. He gives her a sheepish grin as he takes the chair opposite her. “What kind of magic? Harry Potter magic or Harry Houdini magic?”

“Loki magic. Doom magic.”

“Ah.”

He understands her ruminations. He and she, and Tony too, existed in a universe quantifiable and explainable, yet very little about their lives now could be quantified or explained. They existed in a world with gods and teleportation, with events eclipsing in strangeness even the transformation of a man into a giant green beast.

_The mindless beast, makes play he’s still a man._

Jane looks at him, waiting for his response. Shifting in his chair, Bruce says, “I have to. With what we’ve seen. Teleportation and telekinesis. Mjolnir. I mean, it’s made out of, what, a neutron star? This ship shouldn’t be able to fly with Thor’s hammer on board, but it does. I’ve seen Thor leave it on chairs, tables, and they’re fine. If that’s not magic, what is it?”

Jane sighs. “I know. I know. It’s just…” She trails off, shaking her head and turning away.

“It’s just what?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t know what.” Jane pushes back from the table and starts to pace. In her eyes Bruce sees the same manic gleam of curiosity that fueled the destruction of many a lab at Stark R&D. He leans back in his chair and waits, Jane, he surmises, like Tony, eventually needing to voice the thoughts that consume her. 

After a moment, she turns to him and says, “It’s just… what _is_ it? What is magic? Thor said it was just another word for science, but this morning Loki indicated the opposite. And I just… I just don’t _know_.” She shakes her head at that and resumes her pacing. Bruce sees her worry her bottom lip as she turns back toward him. He draws in a breath and prepares to speak, but she continues, only half aware now of his presence. “You can’t just _suck_ energy out of a device like the arc reactor. It’s not possible. You need a conduit. You need _wires_ ,” she says, slamming the palms of her hands down onto the tabletop.

Bruce leans forward and catches her eyes. “Men aren’t supposed to spontaneously sextuple in weight and turn green. But some do. Possible is… evolving.”

Jane looks at him and then, suddenly, deflates, sliding back into her chair with a soft plop. She lays her head on the table and sighs again. “I know,” she says, her voice muffled. “I know. But I don’t. I don’t know, and I _have_ to know, you know?”

Bruce allows himself a small smile at her frustration, the sensation and the will driving her there familiar. “I know,” he says. “You just have to keep working the problem. You’ll find the answer. Eventually.”

Jane nods, or tries to, her face still flat on the table. Then she pushes up and looks at him, a faint frown pulling at her face. “Loki said he would help.”

Bruce leans back in his chair at the revelation. “He did?”

She nods again. “I don’t think he wants to though. Frigga kind of manipulated him into it.”

Bruce scratches at the side of his face, digesting her news. Loki should help. He was the one who started the conflict with Doom. And he was, as he so infuriatingly stated after Natasha had been kidnapped, the only one who could perform magic. But unease swirls through him at the thought of working with Loki, especially at the thought of working with Loki in the close confines of this ship. 

_That guy’s brain is a bag full of cats._

_You can smell crazy on him._

The crazy that had unleashed the beast. Bruce shifts in his seat at the memory. He hadn’t even noticed when the scepter took hold of him, or when he took hold of the scepter. One minute he and Tony had been talking about control and the next, it seemed, their control had unraveled, the team on the verge of collapse. Bruce knows there is no scepter now, or there is, Loki still in possession of the weapon, but no longer using it, Winter the source of their present discontent. 

_Do you want to know why I chased Natasha down this ship and tried to kill her? I did it because someone else stood in this cage and tried to manipulate us as you’re doing now._

_So stop this, or I’m going to get angry._

Bruce closes his eyes. He had to do it. He had to end it, the team too tense, too close to before. But the thought of the fear in Winter’s eyes as he smashed his hand against the glass, as he threatened him and vowed to kill him, causes bile to rise in his throat. Is this the price to stave off the mindless beast: Bruce must unleash the human monster instead? 

Must he become his father?

Something touches Bruce and he jerks back, his eyes flying open. Jane retracts her hand, her eyes wide at his sudden movement. They stare at each other, neither moving. Bruce licks his lips and breathes in, trying to slow the sudden rapidity of his heart. Jane eases her hand down onto the table and says, “Are you okay?”

He nods. The action does nothing to lessen the concern in Jane’s eyes. Swallowing hard, Bruce shrugs and says, “I just… I don’t really like this ship.” He tries to summon another smile, but his face feels stiff, the movement strained and awkward. Standing, he moves over to his workstation and shuffles a few of the papers there. “We should probably get back to work.”

For a moment, Jane says nothing and then she assents. He hears her move behind him, reaching for her notebook or the tablet. Bruce stares down at his workstation, his hands clenched around his papers. His heart rate has slowed, but he still feels breathless, on edge, so he breathes in again and tries his best to forget about Winter.

*

The man known as the Winter Soldier waits in the cage and tries to forget about the Hulk. He must not let fear impede him. He is a soldier—

_I’m a soldier._

_You’re—_

—a soldier and he has a mission to accomplish. Fear will only increase the likelihood of failure, and he must not fail. He already failed once, in St. Petersburg, pulling his shot to wound Natasha, not to kill. A flaw of sentiment. His only flaw, according to the Director, but a persistent one. Because of it, the Director had wanted to recondition him—

_—programmed to kill—_

—to eliminate the flaw once and for all, but Victor had argued for a second chance, a chance at redemption. He cannot fail with this chance. He must banish his fear. Banner looked frightened, despite the bravado of his threats, and Maria Hill wanted him alive, so all he has to do is master his fear and wait and he will succeed.

He will kill Natasha Romanov.

_You love her._

A flaw. A flaw.

Blood on her hands.

_Sometimes I think you like getting punched._

The air crackles then, green light flashes, and then, suddenly, he is not alone. Four figures materialize out of the light. He stands, his left hand flexing, and eyes them: Hawkeye, Loki, Sif, and a woman he does not recognize. She reminds him of the Madam, the same long brown hair, though the Madam wore hers down while the woman piles hers high atop her head in an intricate arrangement. More than the physical, though, her bearing, calm and assured, recalls for him the Madam, although within the Madam lay a core of sharpened steel.

The woman approaches, her right hand outstretched. “I am Frigga, the Queen of Asgard.”

The man known as the Winter Soldier looks at the hand and then at her. Victor had mentioned Asgard after St. Petersburg, the legendary realm a reality, home to Loki and to Frigga and, he suspects now, to Sif. Given the strength he observed within Sif in Paris, he cannot underestimate Frigga, though she directs a kindly expression his way.

A small smile appears on her face at his hesitation. “If I wished to harm you, James—”

_Everybody calls you Bucky._

“—you would be harmed, despite your caution and the formidable strength in your left arm. However, I have no wish to harm you, so it is only impolite for you to refuse my hand.”

She stares at him, her hand still outstretched. He looks beyond her to Loki, Sif, and Hawkeye. Loki stares at a feather in his hands, seemingly oblivious to the exchange. Sif stares at him, at the ready should he strike Frigga. Hawkeye glares, but not at him; he glares at Loki, his arms crossed over his chest. Turning back to Frigga, he extends his right arm and clasps her hand. At her touch—

_—James Buchanan Barnes—_

_—I’m invisible—_

_—You’re just a pawn—_

—he feels cold, so cold. Shivering, he yanks his hand away from her. “What did you do to me?”

Frigga ignores him. She turns instead to Loki.

“Well?” Loki asks, glancing up from the feather.

Frigga considers a moment before responding. “This is not like the other,” she begins. “Layer upon layer block the way. These layers may have provided you some security, a foundation upon which to work, but his mind churns beneath, resisting.”

“Resisting what?”

“All. The truth and the lie.” Frigga looks back at him, and he finds pity in her eyes. And concern. “He is as he is named, vigilant in the suppression of all emotion. There will be no sure foothold for you to use. He will provide none for you.”

Loki nods as Frigga finishes, but he does not respond. He stares down at the feather, twisting it in his hands. Though he knows that Sif still observes him, the man known as the Winter Soldier closes his eyes. He breathes in and tries to banish the cold from his chest. He had anticipated an interrogation, the questioning of which Banner had spoken. This—this focus on churning minds and the truth and the lie—mystify him. Opening his eyes, he finds Loki still contemplating the feather, but, after a moment more, he looks up. But not at him, not as he anticipates.

He looks at Hawkeye.

Hawkeye cocks a brow at the stare. Loki opens his mouth to speak, but he hesitates, which causes Hawkeye to sigh. “You want me to tell him. Don’t you?”

Loki nods.

Hawkeye sighs again. He turns from Loki, his jaw tense. The man known as the Winter Soldier waits. He knows of Hawkeye by reputation, the greatest marksman in the world, superior even to himself. To him, though, he is the man who killed Natalia. Before Prague, Natalia had danced and Natalia had killed, Natalia who had chosen him. After Hawkeye, Natalia was no more; she was Natasha then and his enemy.

_Don’t take it so hard._

_Maybe she’s got a friend._

Another moment passes and then Hawkeye looks at him. He sees none of the pity or concern that he saw within Frigga. Instead, he sees himself in the cold, assessing gaze. Hawkeye smiles, a sharp one befitting his name, and says, “You’re just trying to figure out a way to kill us all, aren’t you?”

Provide no foothold. “Yes.”

Hawkeye nods, waits a beat, and then says, “So why didn’t you kill Natasha when you had the chance?”

_You shot her, but not a kill shot._

_Why?_

He feels Loki watching him, waiting, perhaps, for the same response given in Paris, for the admission of his flaw. But this time he remains silent, returning Hawkeye’s stare with his own.

Hawkeye smirks at his refusal to speak. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. I already know why.” He jerks a thumb at Loki. “He does too. She’s a hell of a woman. The best that I know, even though she won’t admit it. Not that it mattered. Because it didn’t. Not when I was brainwashed. I fought Natasha then and I fought to kill. Talking never would have helped me. So maybe I wasn’t really brainwashed. I don’t know. I was me, but I wasn’t. Not completely. I knew who I was. I remembered. I just didn’t…care.” He pauses then and looks away. Beside him Loki stands, stiff and brittle, and the man known as the Winter Solider wonders the cause. Was it love for Natasha that caused the discomfort, hearing about Hawkeye’s attempt to kill her, or was it something else? Perhaps the rumors were true. Perhaps Hawkeye had gone rogue during the invasion, which, according to the Madam, Loki had orchestrated. If so, he could use it. They worked alongside each other, and S.H.I.E.L.D., now, but the Madam had proven to him more than once that conflict endured. If he needed to, perhaps he could foment dissension between them and rip their team apart.

Hawkeye shrugs and looks back at him again. “It was like… I had someone else in the driver’s seat telling me what to do, where to go, who to kill—”

_—programmed to—_

_—a mindless machine—_

“I didn’t even question it,” Hawkeye continues. “I couldn’t question it. All I could focus on was what I’d been told to do. That was clear. Everything else was… blocked.” He pauses once more and smiles again, this one as sharp as the last. “I called it white noise. After Natasha got me out.”

_But I found you._

Sif takes a step forward now, glancing first at Hawkeye and then at Loki. “But it is not blocked for him. Not in total. He responded to Steve in Paris.”

_I thought you were smaller._

“Are you not curious,” Sif asks as she looks at him, “about why you said this?”

_Who’s Bucky?_

_You are—_

He looks away from her, finds Loki staring at him, and Frigga too. He had run before, shoving Sif off the roof to aid his escape from the words that had surfaced and burst from him unbidden. Other words in other times, other faces, he had seen before, a woman with short dark hair and a bawdy laugh, two boys in an alley, fire and snow and a train. He had examined them once and the Director had known.

He does not remember what happened next, but he knows. Everyone in the Academy knows about reconditioning.

He could remember and be reconditioned.

Or he could run.

But there was nowhere for him to run here, no exit available, his skills formidable, enough to eliminate Hawkeye, but the strength in Sif, his encounter with Loki in Paris, the hunter becoming the hunted in the blink of an eye, give him pause. He tenses as Loki steps forward, toward him, the feather still in his hands. “He is,” he says to Sif. Then to him, “You are curious. You see the flaw. The place where the pieces should come together and fit, but they don’t and you could choose to examine it, to find the truth, but you know the cost is high.”

He shivers, feeling again the cold. “What was it for you?”

Loki grins, but the pleasure in the response fails to lighten the burden in his eyes, the weight of loss. “It was paradise.”

He hears an indrawn breath and tilts his head to find Sif staring at Loki, her eyes wide. Beyond her, Frigga stands with clenched hands. Turning back to Loki, he says, “Was it worth the cost?”

At his question, Sif tenses. Hawkeye joins with the others in their contemplation of Loki. He knows that Loki feels the pressure of their stares, the curiosity compelling them to look. The grin fades from his face. He twists the feather in his hands. Then he smiles again, but his voice is quiet when he says, “They want me to say yes. Yes justifies their pain, all that has been lost because of me.”

“Is it yes?”

Loki looks at him and the rest fade away. “Today it is. In Paris, it wasn’t. It was in Omsk, but not in St. Petersburg, and it has always been in Switzerland, but it never was before Venice. And so it will be for however long I shall remain. And so it will be for you. There is no peace for men such as us. Only truth. And it is truth that I offer you. No more, no less.”

“What truth do you offer?”

“The only truth. The truth about who you are. You could choose to examine the shadows that you fear to understand, or you could continue on as you are. But you know where that road leads, the Void that awaits you at the end.” Loki closes the distance between them. He is silent a moment and then the expression on his face softens. “Someone once said to me that we choose who were. That we only needed a chance to do so. This is your chance. I suggest that you choose wisely.”

Loki finishes. Frigga waits and Hawkeye watches and Sif—

_Who do you believe you are?_

_Is this a jest?_

_They call me Winter._

_—a mindless machine—_

_Sergeant James Buchanan—_

_No._

_You’re James—_

_No. My name…_

_Everybody calls you Bucky._

_—Buchanan Barnes._

_I’m a soldier._

_You’re my friend._

_—a mindless machine—_

_They say kill, and you do, no questions asked?_

He blinks.

_Yes._

And he moves. He shoves his left hand into Loki, sending him flying back against the cage door. Then he spins and aims a kick at Hawkeye, catching him in the chest. Hawkeye falls to one knee. Turning, he sees Sif approach. Extending his left hand, he fires a bolt of electricity from his palm. The energy strikes her in the face. She jerks back, crying out, and he darts toward her, left hand fisted now to punch her in the face. But before he can, Frigga grabs his left arm, stilling it in the air, Hawkeye kicks at his right knee, sending him to the ground, and Loki seizes his right hand, crushing the feather between them.

“As someone else once said to me, free will is the greatest of life’s lies. Allow for me then to choose for you.”

He has time for a breath, but only a breath, and then his mind splinters. He sees the cloud descend as he shoots Natasha. He sees her lie beside Loki, the Om River behind them, lapping gentle and slow. He sees Loki beside Frigga, ensconced in a church in the middle of the Alps. And then he sees himself, in Paris, in Rio, in America, high on a hill, in Russia, in the Red Room, with the Madam, the Director, with Natalia, Natalia on a bench with bloodied hands, in a bed shaking as she kisses him for the first time. He feels a hand on his shoulder and, through his tears, he sees Frigga kneeling before him.

She holds out a hand and he draws in another breath.

At the soft touch of her palm to his cheek, the man known as the Winter Soldier explodes.

In the hollow shell of who he had been, his life unfurls, his real life, or the lie, the wondrous lie, the orphanage and his mother and Steve, Maisie Turner, the first girl he had ever slept with.

_You know, there’s three and a half million women here._

_Hell, I’d settle for just one._

He joined the army and fought Nazis. 

He joined the Academy and fought Americans.

A skull and a train and a fall to his death.

An arm and a cage and a life after death.

He kissed Maisie in a red room and brought Natalia to the future. He crawled over his arm as he crawled out of the river and the fingers turned to steel and his mind turned red as he found new life in death, as he killed and killed and killed and killed.

He curls over onto his side and grasps his head in his hands.

“What have I done?”

*

In the depths of the storage unit, the saxophone wails. Tony leans against the crate of Phase 2 equipment and listens to the music streaming from his phone, a bottle of bourbon in his hands. He would prefer the savage shred of metal to the smooth stacatto of jazz, but it is not his memory that he mourns, so he lets Monk and Coltrane play on and he tries not to think about Doom.

_You would think after what we did to Loki back in May, assholes like you would learn not to come after us. And you’re supposed to be smart._

_As are you, Mr. Stark. A pity the rumors were wrong._

They were. He had heard Loki proclaim Doom’s skill with magic on this very boat the morning after Natasha had been kidnapped. He had seen the strength of Doom’s skill in Switzerland, the power of the inferno that had engulfed both Loki and Doom. Yet, when Doom had arrived on his balcony, intent upon stealing the energy from his arc reactor, what had Tony done?

He’d quipped. 

And Fury had died because of it.

He looks at his suit, scattered on the floor around him, covered in soot from the inferno that Doom had unleashed. The heat had warped some of the pieces. They still connected, but the overall effect of the suit had plummeted from badass weapon to melting Tin Man in need of his oilcan.

“To lubrication,” Tony says, lifting the bottle in salute, but he does not crack the seal to take a drink.

_We need you with us, not off drowning yourself in a bottle._

Tony rolls the bottle in his hands. Steve had been right. In part. They needed someone. The meeting had made that perfectly clear, everyone still focused on their emotional bullshit, Thor and Sif and Loki embroiled in some Asgardian drama, Steve drowning in his guilt about BuckWinter and close to dragging Natasha and the rest of the team down with him too, and Maria too focused on proving herself a capable leader to actually lead. Bruce could help, if Loki didn’t still hate him for puny god and if Natasha didn’t still tense whenever he came near and if Bruce hadn’t vanished after the meeting, probably succumbing to the need to gouge his eyes out for being back on this boat.

Bringing in Darcy had helped. She had worked a miracle with Clint, had stopped the little archer teakettle from exploding and now, if her post-meeting trajectory were any indication, had set her sights on Natasha. But it wasn’t enough. Not with them and their high-maintenance dysfunction. Not with what they’d endured and with what was still to come.

They needed Fury.

Fury had known. He had seen, even with one goddamned eye. He had worked the problem right from the beginning. He had known Doom was a different class of villain, had known they would need magic to fight him, that they would need Loki. And he had known that Doom would target Jane Foster. He had seen the possibility within Darcy. Fury knew how to rein them in and to spur them on.

And he was gone.

_Help Rogers._

Tony closes his eyes. He can feel the ache start in his head, his body beginning to sober, to call for more alcohol. Before, he would have indulged, the problems facing Tony the prodigy, Tony the playboy, Tony the CEO slight in comparison to his demons that needed soothing. And if they weren’t, who cared? It was only his life that he wrecked, no one else’s. 

No one else was his responsibility.

_We’re a team. You’re not going alone._

He remembers that moment on the deck after they rescued Natasha, Loki vanished with Doom and Thor determined to charge off to Asgard to find them. Tony had invoked team loyalty then, high off their victory, from blowing shit up and stealing that robot from Doom. But he hadn’t known then. That was before he knew just how much Doom had tortured Natasha, before Doom had put Clint into a coma, before Odin had died for Loki and Fury had died for him, before Doom had threatened to destroy an entire world and one man back from the dead threatened to destroy their entire team.

Their family.

_You’re the one who made us a family._

Tony clenches his jaw. He had given Bruce a place to stay as a bribe, as a lure to bring his big green brain to Stark R&D. And Pepper had suggested letting Steve stay, citing her twelve percent of the credit and thus of the Tower to do with as she willed. And he had to let Loki stay, Jarvis the only one capable of watching him fulltime in case he was seduced again by the Dark Side of the Force.

_That’s why Pepper isn’t here now, isn’t it?_

_She’s overseeing renovations to the Tower to give the others a home, too._

It was just space. Just money. It didn’t mean anything. 

It didn’t mean that he cared.

_Because you’re so indifferent. Crying into a bottle of scotch in the middle of a storage unit._

They weren’t a family. They weren’t his responsibility.

_Big man in a suit of armor, take that away, what am I?_

_You’re someone who would sacrifice himself to save a city if he had to._

No, he was someone who would lay on the ground and let someone else sacrifice himself instead.

And for what?

_The world needs heroes._

_It needs Iron Man. The Avengers._

Tony wasn’t a hero. He couldn’t stop Doom. He couldn’t even figure out how Doom traveled from world to world, much less why he still remained on this one. Doom had Jane’s research, the power from Tony’s reactor, the ability to open portals in order to cross the stars. He had an entire robot army at the ready to lay havoc to Asgard. 

So what stopped him? What caused him to stay? What—

_The Chitauri are coming. Nothing will change that. What have I to fear?_

_The Avengers. It’s what we call ourselves. Sort of like a team._

Tony straightens.

_You would think after what we did to Loki back in May, assholes like you would learn not to come after us. And you’re supposed to be smart._

_As are you, Mr. Stark. A pity the rumors were wrong._

“Son of a bitch.”

Scrambling to his feet, Tony grabs his phone and says, “Jarvis, kill the jazz and contact Maria.” He turns for the door but then pauses, spins back around, and retrieves the case for the untested Mark IX from his storage container. As he makes his way back to the door, the line opens and Maria speaks, her voice tinny and annoyed. “This line is for S.H.I.E.L.D., Mr. Stark, not—”

“Turn the ship around.”

The order silences Maria. But only for a moment. Then she sighs and says, “Mr. Stark—”

“Did you ever see _Star Wars_?” he asks as he pushes through the door to a dark, narrow hall. “That’s no moon, Maria. Or, if you want to go full Jedi, this is a trap.”

Silence again greets his proclamation. Tony waits, resisting the urge to quip, this moment too important. He pushes though a door to a stairwell and begins to climb and, after half a flight, Maria says, “What’s your reasoning?”

“Loki. I taunted Doom with him in New York. How we beat him. Doom knows that if anyone’s going to stop him, it’s going to be us. That’s why he hasn’t left yet. He’s luring us in, or… or—”

“Sending us a Trojan horse?” Maria asks. “I’m not a fool, Mr. Stark. We scanned the Winter Soldier for weapons and tracking devices before we let him board.”

Tony pauses at the next landing. “And you think your tech is superior to his? Doom created his own sentient robot army. Robot, Maria. As in robotic arm. Winter could have Jimmy Hoffa hidden in his arm and we wouldn’t know it.”

Again, Maria is silent, but not in annoyance. In contemplation. He is close, he knows. Just a bit father. “Just in case,” he says, trying to keep his voice calm. “Get Loki out of the cage and get Winter off of the—”

The first explosion drowns him out. The second knocks him off his feet. The detonation rumbles up the stairwell, ringing his ears. Tony lays on the floor a moment, trying to catch his breath. An alarm sounds and he pushes to his feet, searching for his phone in strobe-lit stairwell. He finds it cracked beneath the case to the Mark IX. Frowning, he tosses the phone over his shoulder and reaches for his case. As his hand closes over the handle, an intercom crackles above him and Maria speaks, her voice chipped and taut, “Doom is here. With his army.

“Prepare for battle.”

*


	43. Blow Up the Outside World: Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a memory that does not belong to him, Loki watches Natasha dance. She wears slim black pants and a grey tank top, and he sits at a piano playing the piece he did not compose. She turns in a slow pirouette, her control exquisite, and the fingers that are not his still on the keys. The silence attracts her attention. Natasha looks at him, her face clean of cosmetics, so young, too young, they never had been young, and he turns back to the piano, knowing that he risks death for the both of them by being here. But he can't bring himself to leave. Instead, he glances at her, finds her smiling at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is violence in this chapter and very minor character death (equivalent to 'red shirt' deaths on Star Trek). Also, Steve uses the military term 'sitrep,' i.e. 'situational report' when talking to Maria. Many, many thanks to samantha_shakespeare for her advice on the chapter and for catching my grammar errors. :)

In a memory that does not belong to him, Loki watches Natasha dance. She wears slim black pants and a grey tank top, and he sits at a piano playing the piece he did not compose. She turns in a slow pirouette, her control exquisite, and the fingers that are not his still on the keys. The silence attracts her attention. Natasha looks at him, her face clean of cosmetics, so young, too young, they never had been young, and he turns back to the piano, knowing that he risks death for the both of them by being here. But he can’t bring himself to leave. Instead, he glances at her, finds her smiling at him.

Her smile compels him to stand.

_You always had an eye for the—_

The first explosion wrenches Loki from the memory. The world resolves around him and he finds himself flat on his back in the cage, Sif poised over him. She has one hand extended, as though to touch him. When she sees he is awake, she retracts her hand. Beyond her, Loki sees Clint stare at him, his brows drawn together. He refuses to believe it is in concern.

Vanishing the feather in his hand, Loki tries to stand, but the second explosion pulls his still unsteady legs out from under him and he falls again to the floor. From this vantage point, he sees Winter curled in a ball, his head in his hands. Frigga rubs circles down his shaking back. As he watches, Loki feels a chill creep into his lungs. He shivers and pain slices through him; he curls into himself, clutching at his shoulder. 

_Let’s hear it for Captain America!_

“What’s wrong with him?”

Blowback. He had pushed too far. He was too curious.

He needed to know.

_You love her._

_But he intrigues you._

An alarm blares. Loki closes his eyes and tries to focus, he tries to close the connection between him and Winter, but the memories overflow the barriers and flood his mind.

_It’s shiny. He might like it._

_Is it permanent?_

_So far._

Someone talks and music plays (is it a waltz or a sonata) and Natasha (Natalia) dances and he watches (diamonds in her ears, her feet bare) and he loves her, he loves her, how can he—

The blow comes hard and fast, a kick to the face that breaks Loki’s nose and the connection too. Opening his eyes, he straightens and finds Sif before him, her foot poised for another kick. Loki waves her away, breathing in blood as he tries to abolish the last remnants from another mind, but still she stands, her eyes on him.

“Kick me again,” he says as he attempts for the second time to stand. “You’ll see who I am.”

Sif stares at him a moment longer and then lowers her leg. She exhales slowly as Loki finally makes it upright. He refuses to believe it is in relief. Turning, he spies Clint a few feet away, the same expression as before on his face.

“Fear not, Barton. The pleasure of my demise still awaits your steady hand.”

Irritation supplants the concern on Clint’s face. “It’s not my hand you need to worry about. Doom’s here. So’s his army.” He looks past Loki to Winter. “Three guesses as to how he found us.”

Loki doesn’t need to guess. Neither does Clint. They used the scepter, Loki bringing it aboard during his capture and Clint tracing the signal. Doom used Winter. Loki sees Clint shift, his body tensing at the memories of their assault. He turns away, wiping at the blood beneath his nose, and locks eyes with Frigga. She stands and moves toward him, raising a hand to heal the break, but he stops the movement with a shake of his head. The pain focuses him; it silences the screams he unleashed.

“We need to go,” Clint says, his tone reflecting the tension in his stance. “Get to command, figure out Doom’s intent.”

“What about him?” Sif asks, pointing to Winter. She directs the question at Loki, not Clint, and, when he does not respond, she closes the distance between them. “You cannot mean to abandon him. Not as he is now.”

Loki turns to her and raises a brow. “You would risk the Captain by releasing him? Or Natasha?” 

Sif looks at Winter, contemplating him and the questions. From the corners of his eyes, Loki sees Winter still on the ground, his head still in his hands. At the brief glimpse, the sonata resumes. Loki swallows hard and turns away, tasting blood.

_What have I done?_

“Then call for me a weapon. I will watch over him.”

Loki looks back at Sif. She holds out her hand to him, waiting for a weapon. When he does not respond, she narrows her eyes. 

Clint takes a step toward them. He glances at Sif and says, “Maria will want you fighting—”

“I do not answer to Maria Hill,” Sif says without looking at Clint. He sighs and turns away as she says to Loki, “If it is as you suspect and Winter— James— whatever we shall call him, if he aided in our discovery, it is probable that Doom will seek his release. What will occur when he is discovered as he is now?”

Loki resists the urge to glance once more at Winter. Nothing good would come of the discovery of him as he is now, broken and perhaps restored. Doom would kill him or return him to the Red Room for reconditioning or release him into the Carrier in the hopes he would fulfill his mission and kill Natasha. Someone, perhaps, should guard him. Yet still Loki hesitates.

_Even now, at the last, you still quarrel with me._

_This is my—_

_Your actions led to this, but mine led to yours, so let me lay claim to my fault._

It is then that Frigga moves, knowing, as always, what troubles him. She stops beside Clint and says, “Agent Barton, allow me to take you to command. Wherever Director Hill may have wanted Sif to be I am more than willing to go. And I am more than capable of holding my own.”

Clint peers first at Sif and then at Loki. Whatever he sees causes him to clench his jaw. He gives a short nod to Frigga, who places a hand on his shoulder. In the next moment, the air crackles, green light flashes, and they vanish, and Loki and Sif being speaking at once.

“Call for me a weapon.”

“You do not know magic.”

“And yet I still bested you in sparring in our youth.”

“I had not been seeking to kill you then—”

“And I had not been fighting at full strength.”

“If Doom casts upon you—”

Sif looks at him, her chin lifted in the air. “Do you wish to explain to Steve how we abandoned his friend? How we injured him?”

Loki grits his teeth. He draws in a slow breath to steady himself then he says, “You should not stay—”

“No,” she admits. “I should not. You should. This is from your efforts. Winter and Doom, both result from you. But you cannot stay. This is obvious. And Frigga will not stay, not with Asgard in the balance. So I must.” Sif moves closer to him, her shoulders set. “So I will do your duty for you,” she says, her voice low. “And you will do mine for me.”

Loki does not need clarification. Protect Thor. Protect the King.

Protect Asgard.

_I am to be king._

_If I am not Asgard, who is?_

Loki tenses at the memory, he and Thor and Sif in the tavern, Thor supplicating for their aid in changing Asgard. In defending the realm from stagnation. Loki had acquiesced then, Frigga in his mind, her quiet concern for Thor and the weight now upon him, ruling the realm without those he believed would guide him. Sif. Loki. Odin.

_Asgard is under your protection now. Yet I do not fear for its future._

_I know the realm will be safe._

Thor will keep it safe, he will fulfill Odin’s last proclamation, or he will die trying in the effort. 

_You are Loki, of Asgard. You are my son, and someday, someday I will see you in Valhalla._

The words ring in his ears, reverberating back upon themselves until the clangor in his mind is in tune to the chaos beginning to rage through the ship. 

_Asgard is lost to me. I cannot return there._

_What about I? Am I lost to you as well?_

Breathing in, Loki pushes through the boundaries of space to grasp the desired object. The sword materializes in his hand, the blade starting to hum at his touch. Gripping the top of the hilt, he holds the sword out to Sif, but she does not claim it. Loki glances at her, finds her staring at the sword, her face drawn. 

_Is this an apology?_

_Hardly. You know I had cause._

_As did I._

Loki pushes the sword toward her. “Take it. It will repel some of the magic.”

Sif looks at him. Loki chafes at the emotion in her eyes. Grabbing her wrist, he teleports them to the walkway outside the cage where he shoves the sword into her hand and turns away. As he calls for his armor and his spear, he hears the sharp crack of lightning outside, Thor on the deck, presumably to call for Doom.

In the rumble of thunder, Loki answers, teleporting away.

*

Chaos, Maria thinks. Everything is chaos.

She closes her eyes and listens to the reports streaming over the comm—

“—rear engine down—”

“—fire in the halls—”

“—multiple breaches—”

“—Doom on six—”

“—just appeared—”

“—200 robots—”

“—Doom on eight—”

“—nothing on radar—”

“—400 robots—”

“—officer down—”

“—officer down—”

“—officer down—”

—but they come too fast for her to follow. The log processes them in a neat list that displays dread on the screen before her. An engine down, killed in the explosions; breaches by robots on six levels; casualties already; and no fixed location for Doom. The last especially worries Maria. He could be seeking any number of targets: the other engines or the weaponry, command or the cage. Or he could simply be sweeping through the ship, searching to destroy those who dare stand in his way.

_Doom knows that if anyone’s going to stop him, it’s going to be us._

_That’s why he hasn’t left yet._

And Maria had flown straight toward him, too focused on taking the fight to him, to act instead of react, to kill instead of die. She hadn’t even considered whether that was what he had wanted. But she should have.

_Location?_

_Stuttgart, Germany. 28 Kongistrasse._

_He’s not exactly hiding._

Fury had known. Within a few hours of Loki being on board, he’d begun to suspect that capture had been his intent. It had been too late then, the trap had been laid, but still, Fury had known. Maria had thought she had, too. They’d scanned the Winter Soldier when he turned himself in and divested him of all that he carried, placing his items in storage in Prague. Just in case. Just in case the simple knife or ballpoint pen became a bomb or a homing beacon. Maria had learned that lesson from the scepter.

But it hadn’t been enough.

_And you think your technology is superior to his?_

_He created his own sentient robot army._

The army now crawling over her ship like locusts, intent on tearing her men apart. At least Maria didn’t have the Hulk adding to the chaos. Not yet. She knows that Banner had confined himself to the lab after Fury’s wake. Maria hopes that’s where he is now, Doom unlikely to head there. 

Unless—

The bedlam in her ear stops, snapping her from her thoughts. For half a heartbeat Maria panics, thinking that Doom had found a way to disrupt their communications, but the bridge continues to buzz around her, relaying orders throughout the ship. As she raises a hand to her ear to check the comm, the line opens again and Tony says, “Well, I hate to say I told you so.”

Maria barely restrains her sigh. “Then don’t.”

“I heartily concur, Ms. Hill.”

The prim voice puzzles her for a moment; then she places it. Jarvis. 

But how?

Tony answers her unasked question. “I downloaded Jarvis into your mainframe. And, yes, I know. It’s for official S.H.I.E.L.D. business only. But I need him collecting data on the bots and you’ve got more room for him to maneuver.”

Hope blooms faint within her gut. “Can he deactivate them?”

“Eventually,” Tony says. “But not before Doom huffs and puffs and blows our house down. Speaking of, can we land, head him off at the pass?”

“No. We’re halfway over Serbia. By the time we reverse course or—”

Before she can finish, Jarvis interrupts. “Apologies, Ms. Hill. Mr. Stark, Captain Rogers is on the main line. Shall I patch him through?”

Maria grits her teeth as Tony assents, refraining from reminding them that _she_ is in command. A few seconds pass and then the new line opens and she hears Steve say, “Sitrep?”

She fills him in, scanning the new reports on the log in the process. “Robots converging on Engines 2 and 3. If another fails—”

Shattering glass and rushing wind, a scraping maelstrom over the comm, halt her prophecy of Doom. Maria winces at the feedback that sounds in her ear. Fingers flying over her screen, she attempts to locate the source of the explosion when Steve says, “That was Thor. He’s got—”

Light flashes by the conference table. Maria reaches for her gun.

“—Mjolnir—”

Clint steps out of the light, Frigga beside him. Maria returns her attention to Steve.

“—to the deck. He’s going to call out Doom.”

“That won’t matter if we let any more engines fail,” she says as Clint starts toward her. “Stark, I need you to get to Engine 1. Captain, Engine 3. I’m sending teams your way to assist.” She types the order and swipes it to Sitwell’s screen; he nods and calls for the squads on the main line. As Clint approaches, Maria eyes him, attempting to deduce the source of his tension, whether it is the present assault or some unknown disaster at the cage. 

“What about Bucky?” Steve asks as Clint stops before her.

Maria hears Tony sigh. She ignores the reproach he gives to Steve, raising instead a brow at Clint, who says, “Winter Soldier’s down for the count. At least for now. Sif’s on guard duty.”

“Loki?”

Clint shrugs, his jaw tight. It is Frigga who responds. “My sons seek to draw in Doom. I am here to offer my services in their stead. Where—”

The door to command blows open. Maria moves her hand to her gun as the first robot darts in, two more in its wake, but before she can aim and fire, Frigga turns and waves her hand, stilling the robots in their tracks. They hang suspended and then Frigga closes her hand. Maria watches, her eyes wide, as the robots begin to implode. One tries to fire a bolt of energy at Frigga, but she halts in her demolition long enough to direct the bolt back at a fourth robot who enters the room. The energy short-circuits the robot and it falls to the floor, inert, beside its crumpled brethren.

Smoothing a wrinkle from her dress, Frigga turns toward Maria and says, voice cool and poised, “Where shall I best be of service?”

Maria arches a brow. The officers around her gape at Frigga for a moment before returning to their duties. “How about here?” she says, waving a hand at command.

Frigga nods her assent and Maria turns to Clint. The sniping in her ear between Tony and Steve had stopped during the attack, the line returned to normal use. She doesn’t care if they continued arguing in private so long as they did so defending the engines.

“Where do you want me?” Clint asks.

“Engine 4. Defense. A squad will meet you there.”

Clint nods and turns to leave, glancing at Frigga as he passes. As their eyes lock, his widen and he stops so suddenly that he nearly falls. He straightens, his eyes darting to Maria and then back to Frigga, who bends her head in farewell. Clint stares at her another moment before slowly turning away. Maria watches as he crosses the room, his pace increasing the closer he comes to the door.

By the time he reaches it, his hand is on his gun.

*

“Are we going to die?”

Natasha understands the question and the sentiment underlying it. In the span of ten minutes, she and Darcy have gone from a quiet information session about the proper care and handling of guns to the cacophonous tumult of an assault. Gunfire echoes down the halls outside the training room and thunder rumbles in the wake of the lightning that had sounded so loud above them that even Natasha had flinched. The disintegration of their calm had been swift, even by Avengers standards. In such a state, death seemed a likely possibility.

“Maybe,” she admits as she eases her throwing knife out of the wall. The knife joins the three others strapped to her legs, her two guns, wrist gauntlets, garrote, baton, and an assortment of flashbangs. More of an arsenal than she had in Venice, but not enough for Doom.

Not when he comes after her.

_Have your AI inform Ms. Romanova that, when I return from Asgard, she will suffer for murdering Anna._

Doom will come. Natasha doubts that he would allow for a simple robot to acquire his revenge for him. If not him, then Winter. Doom would want the killing blow himself or he would honor Anna’s last request, her desired revenge against Natasha.

_He will come after you._

_I have made sure of it._

Natasha takes a moment to breathe in. The past two days, the lack of sleep the night before as she waited for Loki to return to her, the fight with him and then with Steve, cloud her mind and stiffen her body. They increase the likelihood of a slip. Of a lapse.

Of death.

She hears Darcy shift behind her, waiting for Natasha to tell her what to do. She hears the crack of thunder once more and then the whoosh of the Tesseract spear, of Loki in the fight. Natasha focuses on the sound, breathing in and out, finding her center. Then she turns back around and strides toward Darcy. 

Darcy watches her approach, her hands clenched around the strap of her bag, her eyes wide. But her stance is steady and her jaw is set, her fear contained. If later exists for them, Natasha will commend her for it, but now she says, “Do you have your gun?”

Darcy nods and pulls the gun from her bag. Natasha takes it from her to release the safety. “Remember what we discussed. Both hands on the gun. Both eyes open. Do—”

“Agent Romanov?”

Maria. Natasha looks at the speaker high in the wall. She hesitates a moment, the meeting in her mind, Maria pushing her about Winter and scowling when Natasha pushed back, but she knows this is not the time for insubordination, poor communication between them the surest way to kill them all. “Yes?”

“I need you to get to storage and get to Phase 2. We need the big gun.”

The prototype. Inspired by Tesseract technology and reputedly more powerful and precise than the Destroyer. Untested in battle, but the Destroyer failed to kill Doom with one shot. Natasha understands Maria bypassing it for the new design.

Returning Darcy her gun, she says, “Destination?” 

“Unknown. We don’t have a fixed location yet for Doom. Check in when you’ve retrieved the weapon and we should know then.”

“Understood.”

Maria kills the call. The gun would even the odds. If Natasha got to it in time. If Doom didn’t freeze her in place or rip it from her hands before she could shoot. If he didn’t just burn her and the gun in his inferno.

“So,” Darcy says, pulling Natasha from her thoughts. “Storage.”

Natasha looks at her. In other times, in other situations, Darcy would be safest with her. But death comes for Natasha, she knows the feeling, having experienced the cold brush of its hand once or twice, and she will not allow Darcy to distract her from surviving.

Or to die in her place.

Natasha shakes her head. She hopes Clint will forgive her for the manipulation. Darcy, too, if she figures it out. “You’re not coming with me.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m Doom’s main target,” she says. “And you matter too much to Clint for me to let you get caught in the crossfire.” The words hit their mark, but still Natasha goes in for the kill. Just in case. “Besides, someone needs to get to Jane. Doom might still come after her, but I doubt Maria has assigned anyone to guard her. She’ll need all hands to keep the ship in the sky.”

Darcy looks down at the gun in her hands. “So you want me to… protect her?”

Natasha moves closer to Darcy, lays a hand on her arm. “I want you to get her to command, if she’s not already there. If she is, keep her focused and keep her working.”

Darcy contemplates the gun a moment longer before nodding, her face pale, her lips compressed into a hard line. Natasha hopes that she’s making the right choice, Darcy untrained and untested and the ship under siege. But she would rather have Darcy face a robot than face Doom, nowhere for them to run as Clint had run in New Mexico. Her hand tightens on Darcy’s arm and Darcy looks at her as she says, “Both eyes open. Both hands on the gun. Do not fire until a robot is in close range. You don’t want to miss. And when you fire, you don’t wait around for a second shot.

“You run.”

*

Bruce stays calm when the explosions occur, when the alarm sounds, when Maria declares the arrival of Doom. His heart rate increases, sure, but to an acceptable level for a person facing imminent danger. And, yes, his breath quickens, but so does Jane’s as she gathers her gear in a bag, the lab too exposed for them to remain. But aside from this, he’s fine. He’s himself, the Other Guy still slumbering in the depths of his subconscious. So Bruce continues, peering out of the window into the hall, seeing S.H.I.E.L.D. agents as they scurry past, guns in hand, but no robots. So he suggests to Jane that they head to command. Maria might need her. She might want Bruce, too, or perhaps the Other Guy, but this he doubts, the ship too confined and their altitude too perilous for his particular skills to be of use, even with the strides he’s made in control since New York.

Bruce stays calm, so he opens the door.

The sounds assault him first, their similarity to before overwhelming. Some of the particulars differ, no thunder or lightning when Loki stormed the ship, but the effect, the flurry of activity, the pandemonium, is the same. Bruce feels the same tension; he hears the same indrawn breath. The same fear.

And when he tenses against it, he knows that he is doomed.

_What’s your secret?_

_Mellow jazz? Bongo drums? Huge bag of weed?_

He had worked so hard that year. He thought that he had control. One year of nothing—only helping. One year undone by a mystical spear and a few choice words about beasts and men. Bruce knows there is no spear now, or there is, he hears it fire, but not at him, not now. But now he doesn’t need the spear.

Now he has himself.

_But you can control it._

_Because I learned how._

He did. In a city. There, Bruce could roar and rage, he could smash, safe from the team. But not here.

_They want me submerged in a pressurized metal container?_

_Oh, no, this is much worse._

Here they are confined, perched at a perilous height. Here he can’t let go and relish in the rush, so Bruce tries not to tense, tension the surest way to break his control, his grip too tight to last.

But he does.

“Bruce?”

Jane stands behind him, still in the lab. Bruce eases forward to allow her to exit. When she does, he says to her, “Run.”

The strain in the word draws her attention toward him. Her brows draw together as she sees him hunched in the doorway. “Bruce?”

“Go. I can’t—”

Gunfire erupts nearby, the floor above perhaps. Jane flinches at the sound and so does Bruce and, within, he feels the Hulk stir.

“Come on,” she says, reaching for him. “We have to go.”

Bruce jerks away from her hand. “No. No. You have to get away from me.”

Her face grows pale as the implication sinks in. Jane takes a step toward him and then away. Her hands tighten around the strap of her bag as she says, “Is there anything I can do?”

_I swear on my life I will get you out of this._

Bruce starts to shake his head but then the door to the stairwell bursts open and chaos consumes the floor. Six robots and two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents stream into the hall. Before either he or Jane can react, one of the robots launches itself at an agent and slams his head into the wall. Bruce hears the impact from forty feet away. As the agent falls to the floor, he darts out of the room and shoves at Jane, pushing her the other way. She stumbles, slips, and scrambles to her feet when the second S.H.I.E.L.D. agent opens fire. Bruce hears the crunch of metal and turns to see a robot shudder and spark from the bullets. As it twitches, one of its brethren grabs it by the arm and hurls it into the remaining agent. Both agent and robot crumple, and two more pounce upon the pile, seizing the agent by the arms. In the tumult, Bruce misses the shot from the first robot, the gun from the dead S.H.I.E.L.D. agent in its hands.

The Other Guy does not.

The transformation is swift and brutal, Bruce slammed to the back of himself as muscles tear and bones crack and shift, as the Hulk charges forward toward the bullet and the chaos and roars.

*

In the quiet by the cage, muffled by the room’s metal walls, Sif hears the battle rage. She prowls the catwalk, Loki’s sword in her hands, listening to the screams and gunfire, to Thor bellowing in the distance and to a roar that shakes the steel beneath her feet. Clint had been right when he claimed that Maria would need her in the fight. Sif wants to fight, she wants to go, but she needs to stay, the man behind her incapable of defending himself due to their machinations.

Besides, she won’t let Steve suffer the loss of him again.

Thought of Steve slows her step. Discord had barbed their last exchange, Sif bristling when Steve expressed doubt at her ability to question Winter. She knows that his intent had not been malicious, but this makes it worse as this makes it true. If Steve had desired to hurt her, she could dismiss his statements as a lie, but he had not so she could not.

Instead, he doubted her.

_What he means, dear Sif, is that you are noble and forthright and have little patience for manipulation._

_Yet being noble, forthright, and having little patience for manipulation may be detriments when facing a man such as Winter._

Sif turns and regard the man in question. He still lay on his side, his head in his hands. Had deceiving Winter about their intention toward him really benefitted the team more than direct communication? Rather than resolve his disparity of self, it seems they only wounded him more. They could not claim the same when Sif spoke to him in Paris. They had communicated, truly communicated, though in brief. Perhaps if she had more time she could reach him or help him, perhaps draw him to their side.

Spinning on her heels, Sif starts toward the cage. She stands before the glass a moment, waiting, but Winter does not move at her approach. Another few seconds slide by. Clearing her throat, she says, “I do not know how to address you. Steve calls you Bucky. The Queen referred to you as James. The others as Winter. How do you wish to be addressed?”

She receives no response. Sif eyes the far door, the visible cavern beneath the cage. She sees no one, and the sounds of the fight re as muffled as before. Returning her attention to the cage, she taps the hilt of the sword against the glass. Winter stirs at the sound. “Do you recall who I am?” she asks, leaning close to the glass. “We spoke in Paris. My name is Sif.”

Winter rolls onto his back, but still does not respond. 

The voice behind her, however, does.

“A pity, his current state. I had such grand plans for him.”

Sif whirls, raising the sword before her. Doom stands at the end of the walkway by the controls to the cage, his armor blighted, dented, and burned. Taking a few steps down the walkway, she says to him, “Do not move.”

“I fear I must. I have much to do and little time with which to do it.” He raises both hands, the left going to the console, the right toward her. Purple energy sparks between his fingers and then flies toward Sif in a twisting ball. Before she has time to think, to question whether Loki lied to her about the properties of the sword, she’s brought it down before her, slicing the ball in two. The halves shoot past her and collide with the cage, sizzling in sinuous arcs to the other side. 

“Interesting,” Doom says as the cage door opens behind her.

Sif chances a glance behind her, half expecting to see Winter looming, his metal arm raised to strike at her. But he has not moved so she looks back at Doom and brings the sword again to the ready.

“I would love to stay and test the properties of that remarkable sword,” Doom says, “but since Winter cannot fulfill his duty, the task instead falls to me. But allow for me to give you one as well in these our last moments remaining.”

Behind Doom and Sif, the doors to the room for the cage open. Robots surge inside. Ten, twenty, then thirty spread across the walkway encircling the enclosure. Some possess the same weapon as Winter, blue-white bolts of electricity crackling in their palms. Others carry bits of steel, twisted and blackened from fire. Two hold guns, seized, she assumes, from fallen soldiers.

Doom raises a hand in farewell. “It was a pleasure meeting you, dear Sif. But I’ve promised this waltz to another lady.”

He steps back from the controls. The robots around him part as a wave as he moves toward the door. She hears another roar in the distance, the ship shakes, and then, as the doors close behind Doom, the robots converge upon her.

*


	44. Blow Up the Outside World, Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fight on the Carrier continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is violence in this chapter, some of it intence.

Side by side the sons of Odin stand, united against the threat to Asgard. Thor scans the deck of the Helicarrier, winds whipping his cape. He tries to estimate the number of foes before them now that the robots are still. Sixty they slew already, blasting them from the deck or smashing them to pieces, yet hundreds, it seems, remain. They encircle Thor and Loki, the first ring a mere eighty feet away. Twisting Mjolnir in his hand, Thor eyes the closest group, waiting for them to swarm once more, yet they refrain, standing and staring at them instead. “Why do they not fight?”

At his question, Loki moves forward. He tilts his head to the side, his eyes narrowed as he peers at the horde, as he searches for the answer. The robot opposite him mirrors his movements. Loki stares at the robot a moment and then he extends his arm, directing his spear toward the robot. The robot does the same, lifting its arm to point at Loki. They hold position a few seconds and then Loki spins in a tight circle, bringing the hilt of his spear down onto the deck. Half a beat later, the robot imitates the movements, its fist clanging against the metal upon impact. In the echo, Thor hears Loki laugh. 

“Why do you laugh?”

The question kills the laughter. Thor fears that Loki won’t respond, their division over Asgard engulfing their union against Doom, but then he says as he pushes to his feet, “They’re learning.”

Thor again looks at their foes. Blank orbs meet his stare, semblances of faces and life. His hand tightens on Mjolnir. Stronger enemies he has fought in the past. Faster and more vicious too. Yet the cold, clinical analysis, the calculation and the precision of the robots, gives him pause. He experienced a taste of such combat when he fought Tony Stark for possession of Loki. One man, aided by the intelligence of Jarvis, proved tricky. Now hundreds of robots oppose him, powered by a similar intelligence, but this time guided by the madman Doom.

“Do you think they relay this information to Doom?” he asks. “Is this why he has yet to come?”

Loki does not respond. Thor looks at him, finds his hand clenched around the spear and his jaw tight, and he wonders if the tension is due to his questions or their answers. He knows that Loki fights beside him only for Doom, believing, as Thor did, that Doom would answer his challenge. He knows that Loki fights for himself and for Natasha, not for Asgard.

Or for Thor.

Yet his presence inspires hope, as it always has in Thor. Hope that they may reconcile. Hope that they may yet be the brothers that Odin wished them to be.

His hand still clenched around the spear, Loki eases back until he stands beside Thor. Another moment passes and then Loki finally looks at him. The uncertainty in his eyes unsettles Thor. “I think,” he says slowly, the fresh howl of the wind nearly drowning out his words, “that Doom has found another target.”

*

The last robot falls, her fourth kill in as many minutes. Natasha eases down the hall, her gun still extended, waiting for more to emerge from the stairwell. Thirty seconds pass yet none appear, so she proceeds to the door at the end of the hall, the one that leads to storage. The last robot makes a stilted attempt to grab her ankle as she passes by; Natasha shoots another round into its head. Her guns may lack the elegance of the makila that she fought with Venice, but their ruthless efficiency more than makes up for the lack. And, in a few minutes, she’ll have both elegance and efficiency, all of the Phase 2 weaponry available for her to use.

Natasha stops before the door. She glances behind her, sees nothing but her second kill halfway down the hall, twitching as it tries like the other to reach her, so she holsters her guns, turns back to the door, and inputs her code into the keypad. The door opens with a soft hiss. Natasha grabs the handle and pulls, and then she steps inside, closing the door behind her.

The room inside is dark and cool. Natasha takes a moment to let her senses adjust to the dimness and the stillness. Her hand on her gun, she scans the passageways extending to the right and left of her and then the one before, all the way to the far wall, murky in the gloom. The sight reminds her now of Odin’s vault, the deadly treasures held within its impenetrable walls. She looks at the nearest stacks of crates and boxes, at the balcony ringing the room high above. She sees no movement, hears no sound, the steel around her muffling the battle behind. Lifting her other hand to her ear, Natasha activates the comm acquired on her way and says, “Hill. I’m in.” 

Over the comm Natasha hears gunfire and an energy burst, the sounds of command under siege. Another shot echoes over the line, Maria’s from the intensity of the blast, and then Maria says to her, “Any trouble?”

“Two robots in Stairwell E. Four by storage. You?”

“Forty-seven so far. Frigga stops most of them. We do the rest.”

Natasha starts down the passage cutting through the center of the room. The Phase 2 prototype lies in the back corner, behind the modified ammunition and standard equipment. “Any sign of Doom?” she asks, her hand again on her gun.

“Seven signs.”

Natasha frowns at the response. “Seven?”

“Seven distinct sightings. We don’t know if Doom’s teleporting or brought decoys. Maybe both. But three are in your area.”

Natasha slows at the revelation.

_Have your AI inform Ms. Romanova that, when I return from Asgard, she will suffer for murdering Anna._

Natasha peers again into the dark. She twists around to look behind her. Stillness and silence, but Natasha still slides her guns from their holsters. “Any on deck?” she asks as she checks the row number. 

Someone screams over the line and Natasha hears Maria open fire. “Alvarez! Johnson! See to Mitchell!” The line buzzes as energy bursts, Frigga joining the fight, but it is the hiss behind her, the sound of the lock on the door releasing, that captures her attention. Natasha darts to her right, down a dark row, as Maria says, “Not yet, so stay sharp.”

Natasha holsters her guns, jumps, and grabs a support pole for the balcony. She starts to climb as the door to the storage room opens.

“Get the gun,” Maria says as Natasha scrambles onto the balcony, “and then get to command. If Doom wants to bring the ship down, he’ll have to come—”

“Here.”

Lit by the light from the hall, Doom looms in the doorway. He raises a hand and the comm in Natasha’s ear goes dead, the signal jammed. Natasha eases back into shadow, pulling once more her guns from their holsters. She watches as Doom steps into the room, searching, as she did, the shadows, and then her breath catches in her chest as a second Doom and then a third follow the first. The third closes the door while the first two turn back to join the last. A few seconds pass in which Natasha hears movement but sees nothing, the three obscured by shadow, and then a halo of burning light surrounds the door, pushing the three Dooms back and brightening the room.

Natasha squints into the light. It doesn’t take long for her to understand.

Magnesium strips, like she used against Doom in Venice. 

Only used now to weld the door shut. 

Natasha waits, crouched in the shadows. Perhaps they’re here for the weapons and not for her. Perhaps she can wait and blast free once they’ve gone. Perhaps, but then the three Dooms turn to face the room and the first, his cape torn, says, “Natalia Romanova. Lately of S.H.I.E.L.D.”

The second continues, gesturing behind him as he speaks. “You have killed, once again, my favorite robot, though not before he could alert me to your presence here.”

The third steps forward, his armor dented and burned. “I do hope Mr. Stark relayed to you my message.”

“I had intended,” says the first, “to destroy Asgard first and then to kill you.” He starts down the row to his right.

The second turns to his left, heading for the stairs to the balcony in the far corner. “But plans, as they say, change.”

Natasha watches the third stride down the central passageway. “You have removed my knight from the chessboard, so now the king must act before the board, in its entirety, blows.”

*

With mischief, one nudges the even keel of a realm ever so slightly, disarranging just one piece from the set order of the board. With mayhem, one grabs the board and hurls, watching as the pieces fly into the air and scatter, some landing upright, just as they were, others smashing into bits as they crash to the ground. To most, the current state of the ship would read as mayhem, Doom setting upon the Carrier with no warning and watching as the pieces fly and die. But Loki sees the sheen of calculation beneath the chaos, the careful workings of a plan.

A plan, he understands now, of distraction.

He fires at a robot that darts in too close. The others scurry away, roiling, shifting, heaving as a wave around he and Thor, swarming in again from behind. Thor charges Mjolnir with lightning from the sky and releases the energy in a sweeping arc that Loki funnels and splits into a dozen threads that hit their mark, electrocuting and felling the intended foes.

But still, though they fight, no Doom.

Loki grits his teeth as he kicks at another robot. Had Doom gone to the cage as Sif believed he would? Does she fight with him now? Does she die before him as he casts upon her?

Or has he, instead, found Natasha?

_He will come after you._

_I have made sure of it._

Had Anna meant Doom instead of Winter? Loki had assumed that she meant Winter; so too had Natasha. Winter had, after all, pursued Natasha in St. Petersburg and then pursued Loki in Paris in the hopes of finding her again, of killing her as Anna wanted, though, perhaps, not as Winter wanted.

_You love her. Don’t you?_

But had Anna meant Doom instead? Loki frowns at the possibility. What could she have made sure of that Doom couldn’t have done himself? The question spins in his mind. He smashes the hilt of his spear into the chest of one robot and then the tip of the spear into the next, and then, in an instant, he knows.

_She is beyond your reach. You will not harm her again._

_You cannot._

Loki had invoked the Helm of Awe right in front of Doom. Then, minutes later, he had dismissed Doom’s threat to burn Natasha, proclaiming her invulnerable to further harm. Of course Doom would connect the two. Of course he would desire to know what Loki had done to Natasha to render her unassailable. And Loki doesn’t need to wonder how Doom could come to understand the Helm, how he could begin to evade or account for its power, for he had answered that question mere seconds before threatening to burn Natasha to ash.

_You’re not the only one who’s been off world._

Someone, somewhere, explained the Helm to Doom. He found someone, or someone found him. And somehow Anna Volenskaya aided Doom in his attempt to bypass the Helm, first for Winter to kill her, and now, because of Loki, because of what he did to Winter, incapacitating him, for Doom to do so.

Loki breathes in and then shoves out with his mind. The circle of robots jerks back, the space doubling and then tripling around he and Thor. Loki relents only when the first dozen fall from the ship. Turning to Thor, he says, his voice tight, “Stay if you wish, but Doom will not come.”

Thor frowns as he glances at Loki. “Why not? Where has he gone?”

“After Natasha.”

At that, Loki closes his eyes. He breathes in again and tries to clear his mind, to shake away the last remnants of Winter, the rage that brews within him now, the guilt and the panic. He tries to focus, to search the ship for Natasha, to find the energy that pulses within the Helm and within her.

“Loki.” Thor places a hand on his arm. “He comes.”

Opening his eyes, Loki sees Doom approach. He circles once overhead before landing forty feet away. Dents mar his chest-plate, from bullets ricocheting off the armor. The wind whips around them as the three regard one another and then Doom saunters forward, his shredded cape twisting in the gusts. “Apologies,” he says, “for my delay. I was detained.”

Loki hears the smile in his voice, the taunt directed at him. Is it the arrogance of a promise now fulfilled, or is it simply another distraction, clouding Loki when he needed clarity the most?

_Don’t tell me it was that woman._

_Well, maybe when we’re done here, I’ll pay her a visit myself._

Thor steps forward and points Mjolnir at Doom. “Cease your attack on this ship and—”

“I’ll be spared?” Doom asks, turning to Thor. “Will I be offered a chance to atone for my sins as Loki here? As Ms. Romanova? As no doubt S.H.I.E.L.D. intends for the Winter Soldier?”

Thor lowers Mjolnir without response.

The robots approach, twenty in a tightening ring.

Doom stops, ten feet away. “I thought not.”

“Then allow reason to end your scheme,” Thor says, undaunted. “You have not the power to fight Asgard and win. You—”

“Win?” Doom asks. “You believe winning is my goal?” He laughs at the idea, and the sound is desperate and familiar to Loki.

_I’ve come too far for anything else._

“No, son of Odin. I don’t intend to win.” He pauses a moment, and Loki knows that, beneath his mask, he smiles. “Death is my goal, starting with yours.”

And, as if on cue, Doom and the twenty robots around Thor and Loki explode.

*

Her sons fall and the ship soon follows, the second engine failing in the blasts. The latter prevents Frigga from going to the former, for all her sons care about reside on the ship, and were it to crash, were they to die, she fears hope for Asgard and the House of Odin would be lost.

So Frigga remains. 

She abandons her search for Natasha, pulled from her sight the past few minutes; she ceases tracking Agent Barton, still in pursuit of her request; she closes her mind to Winter and to Sif, to the Hulk and the Captain; and then she closes her eyes and releases the robots that she had held at bay on the bridge.

As soon as Frigga relaxes her hold, they pounce; bullets and bolts of energy begin to careen past her, the battle in command commencing in full. But calm remains until gravity reasserts its grip on the ship and pulls. Then panic rises in the freefall, in the bridge and in the ship. Frigga spares a moment to indulge in the sensation, in the knowledge of the last time that she consumed so much power, teleporting from Asgard to Midgard, to her death. The life of Odin flows within her now, more powerful than her own but not yet hers, still settling into her confines, but she must so she does: she closes her eyes and breathes in and then, as gravity, she pulls.

The Carrier shudders and then stills, fixed in the sky like a loosed arrow in the wall. The weight strains, wrenching at Frigga. She stumbles into a workstation. Strong hands grip her shoulders, Maria easing her straight. Frigga meets her eyes and sees nerve and uncertainty in her gaze. 

“Are you doing this?” Maria asks, her voice low, her fingers tight in their grasp. “Holding us up?”

Frigga nods. 

“How long do we have?”

_A leaf falls and millennia may pass._

What is time? 

_Night and day occur, but they mark no true passage of time._

_In a pause, a world may change._

_Or fate._

“I don’t know.”

*

The gun is heavy in Darcy’s hand. She knows she asked for it; she joined S.H.I.E.L.D. of her own volition, no one forced her to, hell, no one _asked_ her to. She volunteered. She thought she could help. Darcy wasn’t exactly sure _how_ she could help, but she thought that she could, and Fury must have too, otherwise why would he have signed her?

And Natasha, she sent Darcy out on her own. She must have thought her capable, or at least not incapable; she asked Darcy to find Jane, to help protect her. Natasha gave her a gun and told her to run, so she did. Darcy ran. She ran through the ship and she didn’t stop, not for anything, not when she ran into fighting, not when she saw the man in the line beside her for coffee that morning shot in the head by a robot, not when a robot came after her, shooting her in the back with an energy bolt that knocked her flat and shredded her clothes and burned her skin, the blast so hot that Darcy thought her flesh would bubble and boil, but she didn’t stop, she picked herself up and she kept going, her friend in need, the robot distracted by the woman with the freckles that Darcy saw at the funeral, crying in the tenth row, now slammed into the wall chest first.

But Darcy didn’t stop.

Natasha asked her to go.

And Jane needed her. Her friend needed her.

So she ran, all the way to the lab, where she dashed inside, her gun in one hand, her tazer in the other, but when she dashed inside, she didn’t find Jane, she found two robots, but Darcy didn’t stop, she dropped the tazer and lifted the gun and fired with both hands and both eyes and she struck one in the chest, but it didn’t stop, it kept coming, so she fired again, though Natasha told her to run, Darcy fired again because where could she go, Jane gone and the ship overrun, so she fired again, but the robot dodged and the other one pounced, it hit the gun from her hands, but Darcy still didn’t stop, she dove after the gun, but the robot dove too and it caught her hair and yanked her back and she stumbled and fell and thought it was over, but she found the tazer and grabbed it and twisted and fired the prongs, hitting the robot, and it twitched and twitched and twitched and twitched and the air sizzled, hot with electricity, and finally it fell, but the second one didn’t, it came after Darcy, awkward in its rush, broken by the bullet that she fired before, so Darcy darted back, hitting the counter, tripping over the gun, bending for it, reaching as the robot struck her in the face, as stars exploded in her eyes, but her fingers grasped the barrel as the robot reared back and she fumbled and fired, fired, fired, fired, ripping the smooth metal to shreds, killing the thing that had wanted to kill her.

Then she stood and breathed and closed her eyes, and for a second, for one brief, beautiful second, the world stopped and was quiet and still. Darcy breathed in the silence, her back throbbing and her nose bleeding, but then the world exploded when the ship did, the ship her world, Darcy and Jane and Clint and Tony and Natasha and Bruce and Thor and Maria, all of them, all of them that she knew and wanted to know, all of them, even the Captain, here, but here spun and fell and for the first time Darcy screamed, thinking that now, now, now she was going to die, and she wishes now that she had thought of something profound, she wishes now that she had thought of Clint or her family or sunsets or the stars, but she didn’t, nothing came to mind, her thoughts consumed by the black and dark of panic, allowing her only to crawl across the floor and huddle in a corner, one hand on her gun, the other over her head, a dozen years of tornado drills drilled into her head, and then the spinning and the shaking and the falling stopped, it all stopped, the ship stopped, the fighting stopped, everything stopped, and so did she.

Darcy stopped.

She sits in the corner, dead robots at her feet, her gun in her hand, heavy now, her hand the only part of her then that doesn’t shake. The battle resumes, somewhere in the distance, then nearby, but Darcy doesn’t move. Blood drips from her chin onto her shirt, her nose throbs and so does her scalp, but the pain in her back dwarfs all, the intensity bringing tears to her eyes. She closes them and sits, tense and trembling, her gun in her hand, knowing that she asked for it, knowing that she failed.

“Darcy?”

Her name from his lips envelops her, warming her chilled bones. Darcy opens her eyes and sees Clint moving toward her, his bow in his hands. His presence here, the hands that she knows to be strong and steady, his eyes, a hazy green lost at sea, now clear beams, focused and bright, intent upon her, push her over the edge and she starts to cry. The tears sting the cut on her cheek. Clint kneels before her and eases the gun from her hand, placing it on the floor by her feet. Darcy latches onto his wrist. He places his bow on the ground and tilts her chin to the side, gazing at the cut on her cheek, then into her eyes, checking, she’s sure, for madness or brain damage or imminent detonation of all of her frazzled nerves.

“Is Natasha dead?”

Darcy blinks at the question. She licks her lips and swallows and tries to gather her thoughts, but her thoughts defy gathering, thrown by the death and the chaos and the unexpected question. “I… don’t know. Not when I left—”

“Then why aren’t you with her?”

The anger in his voice shocks her, frees her from the lingering cloud of fear. Darcy blinks again and looks at Clint, realizing as she does that he isn’t angry with her, but with Natasha. Why, she doesn’t know, but the thought irritates. Releasing his wrist, she pushes to her feet, gasping as the shredded edges of her shirt brushes against her back. Darcy watches as Clint peers behind her. He makes no sound as he peers, but he abruptly turns away, walking toward the door. For a moment, she thinks he means to leave, but then he opens a cabinet behind the door. After a few seconds of searching, he unearths a first aid kit and turns back toward her, and she sees his face now, pale and drawn. 

“Turn around.”

Darcy does and Clint closes the distance between them, slapping the kit on the table beside them as he stops behind her. She hears him open the kit and rifle through; she waits for him to speak, to say something, anything, but he says nothing. The silence scrapes her already scraped nerves raw, and Darcy wants to fill it, she wants to smash it, but she can’t decide between relief at his presence, at that fact that he’s alive, and annoyance at his brusque manner. Is Natasha dead? Is Natasha dead? How about, is she okay? Is Darcy okay? Is—

His hands settle onto her shoulders and the calluses that had so captivated her before do the same now. Clint leans his forehead against the back of her head, and he breathes out a sigh that blows away the fear and annoyance that churn within her. Darcy closes her eyes and grasps one of his hands. She wants to say something, to say anything, but only a strangled wheeze-gasp escapes her mouth, her throat clogged once more with emotion. They remain in place, confirming once more the presence of the other, the feel of them alive, moving finally when the sounds of battle renew nearby.

Clint releases her, easing back toward the table. He rips open a package; a second later relief spreads across her back in the form of a cold compress. Darcy shivers at the sensation, gripping the counter before her, the cold almost as intense as the heat. She feels Clint lean in again, his hand steady upon her back, and then he says, his voice low, “Darcy, why—”

Darcy opens her eyes and tries not to sigh. “The director told her to get some gun.”

“But why—”

“She said I wasn’t safe with her. Not with Doom here. So she told me to go.”

Her admission elicits no comment from Clint. Instead, silence befalls them again, punctured by the distant sounds of bullets and bots. Darcy waits. Clint removes the compress only to slam it down on the counter so hard that it bursts. Blobs of blue gel spray everywhere; a few plops land on her arm, some in her hair. Darcy turns and looks at him, finds Clint with his eyes closed and his hand fisted on the goo.

“Clint, what—”

“Natasha went after Doom.”

Darcy frowns at the admission. “No. She said—”

Clint opens his eyes; a small sharp smile appears on his face. “She said? The Black Widow said? What did she say, Darcy? That he’d be coming for her, that she was his target?” Her blood heats at his tone, but he continues before she can respond. “What else did she say? Something about Jane, I bet, if you’re here.”

_Someone needs to get to Jane. Doom still might come after her._

Darcy doesn’t respond, her silence response enough. Clint regards her, the bitter gleam in his eyes softening. But then, as Natasha before, he goes in for the kill. “Did she say anything about me?”

_You matter too much to Clint for me to let you get caught in the crossfire._

Darcy again doesn’t respond. Clint shakes his head and turns away, his point proven. Darcy watches as he tosses aside the smashed compress. Her final moments in the training room flash through her mind; she sees the beats now, the moments designed to press upon her sympathies and sway her into compliance. She didn’t even question it then; she thought Natasha was just looking out for her, trying to help her. “Why?” she asks, floundering. “I could have—”

“Helped?” he asks, opening a pack of gauze. He shakes his head again, his face pinched and harrowed. “Help is often a foreign concept to Natasha.”

Clint pulls out a tube of aloe and indicates for Darcy to turn. She does, his words churning in her mind, the knowledge that Natasha pushed her away, not because Jane needed her, but because she was useless, because Natasha thought that she couldn’t help. For a moment, Darcy believes that she’s right, voices from her past slithering forth in her mind, the dismissals at the sight of her because of her boobs and lips and hair, but then her eyes fall upon her gun and the fragments of robots strewn before her, and she stops.

Darcy stops.

She stops believing.

And then she starts.

_Just breathe and drive. Don’t worry about how fast you’re going or what I’m doing._

_Just drive and get us there safely._

Clint believed in her, right from the first, the fear in Darcy so keen that she would kill them all as they barreled away from Galisteo, but he had eased her mind and helped her help him. And Tony did, too, he believed in her, he chose her, thinking that she could help the team, and he did it not because he had to, not because of her father, but because of her. 

Because she could help.

Clint applies the last strip of medical tape, securing the gauze to her back. The aloe soothes, sharpening her mind. Bending down, Darcy grabs her gun; she checks the clip as Natasha taught her and then she says to Clint, “I don’t care if Natasha lied. Jane’s still out there and that crazy psycho might still want to kill her. I have to help.”

“You can’t.” 

Darcy looks at Clint; she raises her gun along with a brow. Clint holds up a conciliatory hand as he says, “Jane’s not with Doom. She’s with Bruce. She was here when he changed.” 

“Oh.” A beat passes in which she process the revelation and then she says, “Good.”

“What?”

Darcy shrugs at Clint’s incredulous tone. “If there’s anyone who can keep Jane safe from Doom, it’s the Big Green Machine.”

“Darcy, the Hulk isn’t Bruce. He—” 

“He’s not going to hurt Jane. She’s his friend.”

Clint gapes at her a moment, the expression on his face the same as when she suggested using a wheelchair to fight Doom. Darcy steels herself for his opposition. After another moment, it comes. “Darcy, you don’t… you don’t understand. You haven’t seen him like this. It doesn’t matter if she’s his friend. Frigga said—” 

“No, _you_ don’t understand. If there’s one superpower that Jane has, it’s Beauty-ing for the Beast. She did it for Thor. Now she’ll do it for Bruce. Now, come on.” Without waiting for a response, she bends down and retrieves his bow. “We need to kill Doom so I can throw something hard at Natasha’s head for being all stupid and solitary.” 

Clint, again, as before, gapes at her. Moving in close, she narrows her eyes and says, her voice a low, gruff rasp, “Now, are you going to help me, Clint Barton, or are you going to be like the rest of your stupid, stubborn team and make me go by myself?”

_Are you going to let me help you, or are you going to be a stubborn, macho moron like every other man that I know?_

Darcy sees the memory surface within Clint. His face softens; a nascent smirk pulls at his lips at the remembrance, at the cocky grin on his face as he asked her then if he could do both. She knows now is not the time for flirting, just as it wasn’t then, and Clint does too, but they take the moment, unsure of how many more they might have. She arches a brow at him, biting down on the smile that threatens to bloom across her face at the sight of him, at his presence here with her, in her life. Then he unleashes that damned cocky grin and she breaks. Pressing his bow into his hands, she takes a step back from him, matching his grin with a smirk of her own. “Come on, Barton. Let’s cowboy up and kick some ass.”

Clint regards her another moment, that look on his face that perhaps later she’ll wonder if it’s love, then he eases forward, his bow raised and ready for action. “Now that, Ms. Lewis, sounds like a mighty fine idea.”

*

To be continued.


	45. Blow Up the Outside World, Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle on the Helicarrier continues for Sif, Natasha, Jane, and Tony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The violence continues and, as before, some of it is intense. Be forewarned. There’s also some naughty language. There always is with Tony. Also, like the deleted Clint and Loki scene from The Avengers, I like the deleted Tony and Natasha party scene too much from Iron Man 2 and have appropriated it as story canon.
> 
> Many thanks to samantha_shakespeare for betaing!

The door closes behind Doom and then the robots converge on Sif.

With the sword that Loki called for her, she slices in half the first one that reaches her.

The rest of the horde pause in their charge. They watch, heads tilted, as their cloven compatriot slides apart, the top half bouncing off the railing to clatter onto the floor below. The bottom half tilts forward and falls before Sif’s feet with a clang. She kicks it aside, off the walkway. As it smashes onto the floor, the robots closest to her retreat, back to the entrance to the walkway, then around the room where they encircle her. 

Her and the man who still lay in the cage behind her.

Raising her sword, she says over her shoulder, “James Barnes! Winter Soldier! Now is the time for you to arise.”

No response greets her call. Chancing a glance behind her, Sif finds Winter much the same, prone upon the floor with his head in his hands. Her lips compress at the sight. No aid would come from him, his mind still lost, torn asunder by their efforts to heal him. 

Turning back to the robots, she eyes the two with guns, one standing ninety degrees to her left, the other twenty to her right. She knows that others possess long-range attacks too, energy capabilities similar to those at the disposal of Loki or the Queen. But the sword should disperse those attacks; the bullets, however, she doesn’t know. Jumping to the floor below would provide a better battleground, more room for her to maneuver, none on this walkway and little cover too. Yet were Sif to depart the walkway, the path to Steve’s friend would be clear. An assault, perhaps, would rouse him, but just as likely, he would perish in the attack, incapable now of defending himself. 

_This is not like the other. Layer upon layer block the way._

_He’s not your friend, Steve. He hasn’t been for a long time._

_But he can be again._

Stifling her sigh, she plants her feet and raises her sword. The robots begin to shift and sway, to glance at each other, communicating a plan. Sif arches a brow. The imminence of battle heats her blood, draws a sharp smile to her face.

“Shall we begin?”

*

In the dark of the storage unit, the Dooms hunt. Natasha eases back into the shadows, sliding one of her guns into her holsters. The arsenal that she carries, her guns and garotte, her gauntlets and baton, a few knives and some flashbangs, is not enough to defend herself, not against Doom. The Big Gun that Maria wanted lay in a crate on the opposite side of the room, but she dismisses the idea of retrieving it, needing something sure, something tested. The Destroyer would suffice, but Natasha doesn’t know if it was returned to the ship after Fury used it on Doom or if it had been transported to headquarters as evidence. Modified ammunition from Phase 2 occupied the shelves a few rows from Natasha; reclaimed Chitauri weaponry and standard munitions followed that. These would have to suffice, to form the backbone of her plan.

Her web.

_The Black Widow._

_You weave your web of words over men, and, lost in their flush of power, their triumph over so small a thing, they fall into your trap and are ensnared._

If she outmaneuvered the Hulk, if she outthought Loki, Natasha could do both to Doom.

She could win.

Her eyes flitting between the various Dooms, Natasha takes a cautious step from the shadows. As she does, muffled explosions reverberate through the walls. Her heartbeat ticks up a notch at the sound, it and the vibrations beneath her feet the same as before, when Loki and Clint sought to bring down the ship. Holstering her gun, she clasps her hands around the rail. As she latches on, an energy blast zooms past her, fired from the Doom on the opposite walkway. He primes another shot, but at that moment the Carrier begins to wobble and then fall, a drunken bird reeling in the sky. 

Cases tumble off the shelves. The Doom opposite her slams back into the wall. From the corners of her eyes, Natasha sees something slide down the center row. Her heart skips a beat as she recognizes parts of the blackened Mark VIII. She tries to track its progress, but the swoop of the ship sweeps the parts from view. Her feet slip from beneath her as the ship falls; the wrenching sends a jolt of pain through her left hand, still sensitive from her torture in Latveria. Natasha bites her lips but keeps her grip, riding the lightning as best she can. She sees the fallen Doom straighten. His hand extends toward her again, but then the momentum of the fall reverses and the ships snaps to such a stop so quickly that the force wrenches Natasha free and she tumbles from the walkway to the shelves below.

Rolling, she avoids the shelf and lands on the floor in a crouch. Another energy burst sounds from the walkway. Springing to her feet, Natasha sprints down the aisle to the central passage. She sees Doom prep for another attack. As he fires, she dives and rolls again, avoiding the blast, then somersaulting her feet. Another Doom appears at the end of the aisle ten feet away, but Natasha does not hesitate. She charges, jumping, wrapping her legs around his neck, swinging, reaching, wrenching them both to the ground. There, she slams the flashbangs that she had grabbed into his mask, lighting them up with the electric nodes of her gauntlets. 

Doom reels from the burning light, from the fire that ignites his tunic and cape. Natasha springs free, racing into the aisle. The pieces of the Mark VIII lie scattered before her over fifteen feet of space. She searches, her eyes darting from piece to piece, jumping from a shoe to a shin guard to an unopened bottle of liquor. She hears a clang behind her, the Doom from the walkway jumping down to the ground. Then she sees them.

The gloves.

_Packs a big punch, doesn’t it?_

Then, for the Mark IV, the glove needed to be connected to the Arc Reactor to fire. Now for the Mark VIII, they store energy, enough for one shot each, just in case. Natasha grabs the gloves as Doom fires again; she careens down the closest aisle, her heart pounding in her chest. She has no clue where the third Doom lurks, whether he watches and waits for the other two to tire, to fail in their efforts to kill her, or if he stalks her along with the rest. Breathing in, she ducks down between two crates, hiding in the shadows, thankful once more for her small frame. She hears the Doom that pursues her stop at the end of the aisle. She waits for him to approach, guiding her hands into the gloves. They respond to her presence, priming, readying to fire. A slow second slides by, followed by another, before Doom moves, not down the aisle but retreating to the central walkway to search for her. 

Natasha does not hesitate. She creeps between the crates, crouched, twisting, sliding through the cracks and crevices under the stacks. At the end of the aisle, she peers between two boxes, sees the Doom from the walkway pause and regard an aisle three rows down. Turning her head, she spies the fallen, burning Doom lurching to his feet two rows back. Extending both hands, one in each direction, she aims and waits, aims and draws in a breath. The burning Doom stumbles into the walkway, the searching Doom rotates back toward her. 

_I do so love watching you work._

Natasha fires. The shot to her right shreds only cape, this Doom diving, lunging out of the way, but the shot to her left slams into the faceplate, ripping open his head of the burning Doom, of the robot, igniting the wires inside. Natasha watches as the robot falls, slamming onto the ground with a bang that reverberates through the room. Beyond him, she sees the third Doom. He stands halfway down the storage unit, his armor dented and burned. He raises a hand. A beat passes and then the crates around her begin to shake.

_I’ve encountered much worse than you before._

_Perhaps not quite like me._

Dropping the spent gloves, Natasha runs. 

*

Jane ran to command. Bruce asked her to go, so she did, the anxiety creasing his face about his imminent change too much for her to refuse. But when she got to command, she found dozens of robots blocking the entrance, all straining against something she couldn’t see to gain entry to the room.

So Jane ran from command. She ran and she did something that she knows many would consider to be stupid and reckless, but which Jane considers to be her safest option, Thor fighting on the deck by the sound of the lightning outside, Darcy and Clint nowhere to be found, and no one else in S.H.I.E.L.D. interested in her travails, in the fact that the man who tried to kill her before is back again, possibly for her, her data on Asgard fragmented and encoded and incomplete.

She followed Bruce.

His trail wasn’t hard to find. She picks her way through the shattered remains of robots, through holes in the walls and broken down doors, weaving her way to the rear of the ship. Though she hears battles occurring elsewhere, in the wake of the Hulk all is quiet, the calm after the storm.

Exactly as Jane expected it to be.

But still, she knows, reckless. Nothing prevents the Hulk from doubling back, from discovering and then dismembering her, but Jane would rather risk the wrath of a man she’d like to consider a friend than that of the monster who tried to kill her because he wanted to steal what she knew about Asgard.

So she follows.

At a jagged arch in a small office wall, she stops and peers around the edge. Another hall greets her, this ship a labyrinth, a honeycomb of surprising complexity. Towards the end, she sees the Hulk rip an arm from a robot. A second stands nearby, shooting an energy bolt in a vain attempt at offense, but the Hulk merely turns and swats at the bot with the severed arm. As it darts out of his way, back toward Jane, she ducks back into the room to wait for the fight to conclude.

It is as she turns that she sees Doom.

He crouches on the ground, his back to Jane, in the hall two rooms away, examining a pile of scrap that used to be a robot. Jane ducks behind an overturned desk, trying not to dislodge the supplies at her feet, the scattered pens and paperclips, pencils and post-its. She scans the room, searching for an escape route, but aside from the two holes in the walls smashed in by the Hulk, only two doors lead from the room, one to a small bathroom off to her right, the other to the hall in which the Hulk and the robot continue their fight. Jane looks at the bathroom and contemplates hiding inside, but Doom may have seen her before she saw him, who knows how long he had been following, and in there she’d be a sitting duck, waiting to die.

Easing around, she looks out the hole into the hall. The sounds of conflict draw closer, the Hulk grunting, then growling, as the robot fires again. Her hands slick with sweat, her heart pounding in her chest, Jane turns back to the desk and lifts her head just enough so that she can see over.

Doom stands in the makeshift entrance, facing her, his hand raised in a wave. “Ms. Foster,” he says, “we meet—”

Jane doesn’t wait for the rest. She scrambles to her feet and darts from the room, dodging the robot that dodges the Hulk. Arms wheeling, she straightens before sprinting down the hall. The robot fires as she runs; the energy blast hits the bag slung across her back, the bag that contains her work, her life. Jane stumbles from the impact, and it is then that the Hulk roars.

The sound is like the man who emitted it, charging toward Jane, banging off the walls and amplifying to a tsunami that crashes down the hall. She claps a hand over one ear to try to dull the sound; with the other, she fights with her burning bag, tugging on the strap. As the echoes dissipate, the robot fires again, the sound muffled and distant beyond the ringing in her left ear, her right deaf and useless. She cringes waiting for the strike, but then the entire ship quakes, throwing the shot wild, off into the wall.

Simultaneously, the bag and the ship fall. In the lurch, Jane slams into the wall; she slips and tumbles and skids against the floor. The robot paws at her foot, tries to yank her leg away, but the ship nosedives and she slides back toward its grasp.

The Hulk roars again. The wall shudders beside her. Jane lays her palms flat on the ground and digs in the toes of her shoes to stop her slide. She hears the screech of metal and glance behind her to see the robot scrambling for purchase and, beyond, the Hulk braced against the wall. The robot raises a hand and aims at Jane, but again the shot goes wide as the ship snaps to a halt, knocking both Jane and the robot back to the ground.

Ears ringing, head pounding, Jane rolls to her knees to flee again, but the robot grabs her ankles and yanks her back down. It pounces, pinning her face down to the floor. As it raises a hand to strike, Jane sees Thor in the lab when he smiled at her, the smile that she thought was like sunlight, like poetry, and she closes her eyes to save the image, to have it guide her to death, to whatever lies beyond the life that she thought she had so much more to live.

But death does not come, delayed by the Hulk. He rips the robot from her back, and Jane scurries away, watching as the Hulk rips the robot in two. He slams one half into the wall, the other into the floor, sending a spray of metal, paint, and wood upon her. She twists her head to the side and closes her eyes, wincing as a scrap of metal scrapes her chin. Then she waits, waits for more, for the Hulk to smash, but silence descends instead, broken only by her own harsh breathing and the distant sounds of renewed battle. 

Blood coursing down her chin, breathless, numb and frantic, Jane opens her eyes and looks up at the Hulk. He stares down at her, his chest heaving, muscles rippling beneath grass green skin. A beat passes, and she wonders if Bruce had been right to fear for her safety, if the trauma of his past on this ship and its current predicament will cause him to lash out at all who cross his path, both friend and foe. She watches as his right hand flexes, but rather than strike at her, the Hulk motions toward her and says, “Command.”

Jane blinks at the comment. It takes her a moment to process this twist, her nerves frazzled by the bots and the mayhem and the latest brush with Doom. Then she nearly smiles, the recognition that the word implies confirming that he knows her, confirming that she’s safe. Before she can smile, though, the censure processes and her eyes narrow in a glare. 

“I _went_ to command,” she says, pushing to her feet, “but it was surrounded, and I didn’t know what else to do. I don’t have guns or arrows or a supersuit or military training or superpowers, I don’t have _anything_ , not even that _stupid_ tazer Darcy got me in New Mexico. I don’t even have my work anymore, that _stupid_ robot burning the last copy I had. And Doom tried to kill me _again_ and the ship almost _crashed_ and you- you _lecture_ me about doing the one thing that I can think of to stay safe?”

One hand raised and flailing, Jane takes a step toward the Hulk. He eases back, whether from the flail or the shrill tone that assaults his ears Jane doesn’t know. But the retreat pushes her over the edge. Bending down, she grabs a piece of broken robot and hurls it at his chest. He watches the chunk bounce of his chest and then clatter to the ground. As it spins away, he looks at her again, one brow cocked in disapproval. 

The sight punctures her righteous rage. Jane deflates, her chest heaving. Lowering her head, she rubs a hand across her face; blood smears onto her palm. She stares at it, exhausted, dizzy now and aching. In the distance, her bag burns. Sighing, she wipes the blood off on her jeans and then turns once more to the Hulk. “I’m sorry I threw a robot at you.”

The Hulk twitches and grunts, moves that she interprets as ‘no problem.’ He gazes at her another moment and then sighs, and at this, Jane knows that she will be safe. Turning, he gestures for her to follow. She glances once more at her burning bag and tries not to despair. Tony has a lot of her data with Jarvis. Some could be salvaged. Hopefully. Maybe.

Hopefully, but she knows not.

Sighing again, Jane moves toward the Hulk, nearly falling again at the shock of seeing Doom, his head smashed into the wall and his body ripped in two, exposing the wiring and intricate mechanics inside.

*

Upon her question, her invitation to engage, the first wave advances. 

Sif dodges the opening strike, swinging the sword in a swooping arc to slice the head off the foremost foe. She kicks the body back into the others that come behind, then reaches out to catch the falling head. This she chucks at the one with the gun, the one to her right. Swiveling in a tight circle, she swipes at an energy burst sent from a robot to her left only to shove the sword through the chest of the next to proceed down the walkway.

Wrenching it out, she tosses the twitching remains over the railing. As it crashes to the ground, she somersaults back, kicking at the closest bot, catching it in the chest and sending it back again into its fellows, clogging, for a moment, the entrance. In the flip, she eludes the first bullet fired her way, but the first entices more and all the robots along the edges of the room open fire. Sif dives back into the cage, wincing as an energy burst discharges along her right leg. The nerves in her leg tingle as she slams on to the floor. Striving to stand, she watches as a bullet ricochets off the doorframe to the cage, bouncing inside to lodge in the ceiling. Sif limps over to Winter, grabs his leg, and pulls him back. He lashes out at her, blind, lost, half mad with memories. Darting out of the way, she switches her sword to her left hand before moving back in to do what she did for Loki when he was blind, lost, half mad with memories.

She punches him in the face.

Her blow decks him. Winter crumples back onto the floor, flat on his back. Glancing to the side, Sif finds that the bots have reassembled and now barrel down the walkway. Returning her sword to her right hand, she rushes to meet them, slicing, dodging, felling foes. Five perish from her efforts, but the sixth sidesteps her blow to unleash its own. The kick catches her full in the chest and she stumbles back. As she does so, the bots fire again. With the sword, Sif blocks the first burst to her right, but not the second. The energy explodes against her right knee and the leg gives way beneath her. Her left hand darts out to catch the rail. The guns open fire. The first bullet bounces off her armor; the impact snatches the breath from her chest. The second slams into her left hand, piercing the skin and embedding in the muscle and bone.

Crying out, Sif releases the rail. The robots before her charge. Winded, desperate, she raises the sword and, in a flashing arc, slices first through the rail and then through the walkway. The metal shudders in response and the robots pause, heads tilting once more to observe the new twist. The world waits as the bridge waits and then Sif slams the hilt of the sword against the metal. The sound of impact explodes around the room. The length of the walkway with the bots snaps free; it lurches to the slide and then crashes to the ground. The end upon which Sif sits wobbles, but it does not fall. 

Breathless, Sif watches the robots twist and writhe in the wreckage. She places the sword down beside her and rubs her right hand along her leg, still tingling from the energy bursts. Her left she clutches, bloodied, to her chest. Eyeing the bots edging the room, she waits for them to fire, but they refrain and Sif thinks, for a moment, that a stalemate has been reached, but, in that moment, explosions erupt, dozens of them, in nearby parts of the ship. The Carrier convulses from the blasts. The platform shakes beneath her and her sword spills to the ground. Sif fears momentarily that she’ll follow, but the walkway holds, secure to the cage. 

Easing to her knees, she inches back to the safety of the cage. As she does, the robots fire. A bullet whizzes by, grazing her forehead. Then an energy burst wallops the side of her head and pain bursts bright within her. Sif hears Winter stir behind her, but before she can turn, before she can move, the ship lurches to the side and then plummets. The momentum sends her careening off the walkway. She reaches out, desperate. Her left hand grabs a shredded edge of the rail. She hangs suspended, dangling below the pit crawling with bots. Drawing in a breath, she means to call to the Winter Soldier for aid, but then the ship jerks to a stop and the change in momentum dislodges her grip and she falls, breathless, weaponless, down into the swarming horde below.

*

Natasha runs.

Doom follows.

The robot pursues her down the left passage, beneath the walkway, away from Doom. Yet he follows, seeking with his magic to pull the room down upon her. Crates and boxes tumble from the shelves, some at Natasha, some before her, blocking her path, trying to force her back toward the robot. She grabs her guns from her holsters, leaps over a broken crate of grenades, turns, and then fires. The bullets crunch against the robot’s armor, but as in Venice with the real Doom, they fail to stop it. She holsters one of her guns, grabs a grenade, and yanks the pin with her teeth before hurling it at the bot.

It evades as Natasha expected it to, darting down one of the aisles away from the explosion, but she wins a few precious seconds of time from the effort. Spinning on her toes, she takes off for the end of the unit, for the second to last row. 

For the Big Gun.

The aisles fly by. Her lungs burn. She wonders if Maria sent anyone to investigate her absence. She wonders where Loki is now, if Darcy survives, if Heimdall watches as he always does. The robot approaches, twenty feet behind her, and Natasha thinks she can make it, she sees the row with the gun, but then the walkway above her wrenches free from the wall. Natasha skids to a stop as the unit plows into the ground. The tremors from the impact shake her bones; in the din, she twists and fires, but the robot is there, slapping at her hand, wrenching her wrist to the side. Natasha grabs her garotte and whips it around its neck, but before she can pull and bring it to the ground, it grabs her throat with its free hand and starts to squeeze.

Dropping the garotte, Natasha reaches for her knife, Venice on her mind, her desperate crawl for the gun as the robot bore down upon her back in the dusty churchyard. Lashing out with the knife, she aims for its elbow, neck, and face, but the blade glances off the armor with no more than a scratch. Kicking out, Natasha braces herself against its chest and tries to twist free, but its hold intensifies. 

Her lungs sear. The room dims around her.

Then the rune on her face begins to glow.

_It’s a rune of protection. Fríðr ægishjálmr._

_It means ‘beloved, the Helm of Awe.’_

Natasha closes her eyes.

The energy detonates, erupting from the rune, her hands, her lungs, her eyes, blasting out and bludgeoning the robot, wresting her free. Natasha falls to one knee. The robot slams back into a shelf, ricocheting off only to smash into the wall. Over its armor, the energy from the rune cascades in sinuous arcs, the green light bright in the dark. Drawing in a gasp of air, Natasha crawls across the floor, slipping, sliding, ducking behind a crate as the air around her contracts, as the robot hisses and then whines, as the energy crescendos and then, with the force of a god, with the force of a Frost Giant, the robot explodes.

*

“So here’s my message. Because I do learn. I mean, this isn’t ‘flying through a portal to the ass end of the galaxy’ insanity, but shit is going down, or it would be except Glinda’s got us steady. I don’t know for how long though, so—message.

“Keep doing what you’re doing, Pep, even if I, you know… don’t. If I die. Whatever. You know what I mean. They need it, all of them, even Darcy, so carve her out some space if you can. Tell Rhodey he keeps missing the fun-vee. But maybe that’s a good thing, I don’t know. There’s not much fun in this vee. And Pep…” 

Tony pauses and breathes in. Or his breath pauses him, welling up in his chest, pushing at all the things he should say, all the things he should have said before but that he joked away, too afraid or insecure or just too certain of a future when he could say them. He swallows, adrift without a quip. Closing his eyes a moment, Tony remembers the look on Pepper’s face when she finally made it back to New York and the elevator opened and she was there, looking at him as he stood there with a chunk of broken floor in his hands. At the memory, the words come, stiff and stilted. “You… you make it worth it. Everything. All of this. You… Pepper, I- Thanks.”

He ends the message, his teeth clenched. It wasn’t enough (it never was) but neither was what was in his will and that was six and a half billion dollars. At least it was something, though, the money and the message. And maybe he’d survive, maybe he could do more for her then, maybe he could even say what he should say, but at least if he didn’t, she would have this. His message.

And six and a half billion dollars. 

But also the message.

Releasing a slow breath, Tony turns his attention to the engine before him. Smoke belches from the hole punctured in the hull by the explosion. A piece of the engine dangles below the ship like a lure off a fishing boat, but no robots come to claim the prize, bigger targets enticing them inside. Tony aims and fires at the chunk, disintegrating it, sparing the good country folk below at least this debris. The rest, though, he abandons, the engine shot, shredded and melted and lost. 

Twisting away, he says to Jarvis, “Do you want to tell him or should I?”

“Oh, so we’re informing the Captain of recent events now, sir?”

Tony tries not to sigh. He understands the tone, though he had hoped that Jarvis would support him. Tony had, after all, been trying to do the right thing, the thing that he had been asked to do by bald, blackmailing bastards in their last requests before death.

He had been trying to help.

_You’re not the type to make the sacrifice play._

“Jarvis, there’s nothing I’d love to do more right now than argue with you about the virtues of utilitarianism. However—”

“Time is of the essence. Allow me then to patch him through.”

The comm goes silent as Jarvis initiates a line with Steve. As he waits, Tony spins away from the engine and soars over the top of the ship. The sight on the deck chills him. The metal roils as a frozen wave, charred and warped by the heat of the blasts, twenty mini reactors blowing as one. In the midst, Tony sees Thor and Loki, crumpled and still. A few robots stir at the edges of the blast zone; he aims again and fires at them, eliminating their threat, but he doesn’t land. Doom still lurked somewhere in the ship, and with Cain and Abel down for the count, with Glinda keeping them steady, with Natasha gone and the Hulk with Jane and the chaos that consumed the cage, he was the only one who could take on Doom and win. So he passes by, the deck shot, shredded and melted and lost.

As he approaches his engine, the line opens. Tony hears a few bursts of gunfire and then Steve says, “Well?”

“We’re fucked.”

“Tony—”

“We are. The engine’s toast, literally toast, so unless you can duct tape a few dozen Gulfstreams to the bottom of the ship, we can’t fly.”

There is a pause and then Steve sighs. Tony almost sees his clenched jaw and furrowed brow. He considers hacking into the security feed to see if he’s right, but he looks in on Camera Hulk instead. The last time he had checked he had seen Jane, in a move that only he, perhaps, would understand as brilliant, following the Big Guy and his Rock ‘Em, Sock ‘Em smashing throughout the ship. Now she walks beside Bruce as though he were Clifford, the Big Green Dog, no Dooms or bots in sight. The sight eases some of the tension within Tony. 

Only some.

_You’re not the type to make the sacrifice play._

Tony breathes in and tries to be cool. The air in the suit doesn’t help, despite the vents sucking in the cold sky of forty thousand feet. He peeks in on his team, steady in their defense of the engine. The one by the door, Tony thinks her name is Bennett, gives him a thumbs up and he flashes one in return before twisting away and shooting off toward the hangar, knowing what’s to come.

After another moment, Steve sighs again, a short huff of frustration. “If we can’t fly,” he says, “then we fight. We leave the engines, find the nearest Doom, and fight. Maybe with that we can give Frigga enough time to get us on the ground.”

It’s the right plan. It’s the only plan. But it’s the plan that forces him to reveal his lie. Or not his lie. His _withholding_. Was it the right thing? This is why he doesn’t do the right thing. He doesn’t know the right thing. Pepper knows. Jarvis knows. Maybe. Tony did program him, after all, but he’s grown to—

“Tony? Do you disagree?”

The question jerks Tony from his rabid contemplations. “No. No. It’s the plan.”

“But?”

“But nothing. It’s the plan. It’s just, you’re going to ask me where Doom is now, and I’m going to tell you that I don’t know because he disappeared about fifteen minutes ago, and then you’re going to ask me where he was last seen because you think we can start our search there and I’m going to have to tell you, and I am, I will, I just—”

“Tony.”

“The cage,” he says, blurting the answer, ripping the band-aid off in one fell swoop. “Doom was last seen at the cage.”

At first, Tony hears nothing. Then a quick, halting gasp carries over the comm. The sound cuts more than he thought it would.

_Because you’re so indifferent. Crying into a bottle of scotch in the middle of a storage unit._

“Check,” Steve says.

_You’re the one who made us a family._

“Check,” Steve says again, the word harsher this time, roughened with panic. 

Tony doesn’t have to check. He already has, off and on since he downloaded Jarvis into the mainframe. Sif had fought well at first, more than well, a poetry to her carnage of the bots, but carnage only comes with a weapon in hand, which is hard to maintain when one is trapped in a cage with dozens of bots and a brainwashed spy on a crashing and then not crashing ship. 

“Tony—”

“I already checked,” he says, bracing for the response. “Ten minutes ago.”

The silence on the other end of the comm is so absolute that Tony wonders for a moment if the connection has been lost. But he knows that it hasn’t. He feels the weight of judgment on the other end, pulling at him, a black hole of rebuke. It reminds him of Howard in the last years, the cool looks of disapproval at whatever Tony had done then, though whatever he had done had been to elicit that look, fuel for more anarchy, nihilism, and despair.

“Look,” he says, unwilling to bear the weight now, knowing (hoping) he was right, “I know what you’re going to say. You think I should have told you. Then you could have gone rushing off to save your damsels like you wanted to the minute Doom arrived. But saving them wouldn’t have mattered if the ship had gone down. We needed to protect the engines.”

The silence persists. Tony goes in for the kill.

“You can’t put yourself above the team, Steve.”

_But this isn’t just about you, Natasha. Doom killed Fury. He wants to destroy Asgard._

_You can’t put yourself before the team._

The silence endures another moment, shattered at last by a ragged exhale. “You’re right,” Steve says. “I know you are. I just— Are they alive?”

His voice breaks on the last word. Tony lands on the bay in the hangar and takes a moment to close his eyes. If an afterlife existed, he would find Fury and kick his bald, blackmailing ass for his last request to help Rogers. “I don’t know,” he says. “I lost the feed a few minutes ago. They were last I checked.”

“Mr. Stark. How lovely to see you again.”

At his name, Tony opens his eyes. Doom stands before him in the hangar with a dozen of his cohorts. In the distance, he sees bodies splayed and twisted, soldiers lost, caught in the crossfire.

_Is this the first time you’ve lost a soldier?_

_We are not soldiers._

Doom eases away from the plane beside which he stands. He turns toward Tony. The rest of the robots follow, abandoning their sabotage, and Jarvis initiates his scan.

_I’ve seen the footage._

_The only thing you really fight for is yourself._

“Tony…”

“Go,” he says to Steve. “Take the east stairwell, go down two floors, then use the fourth set of stairs to get to the cage. You’ll avoid most of the trouble that way. I’ll track down the Dooms, try to get a bead on the real one.”

_The world needs heroes._

_Help Rogers._

Steve thanks him, his gratitude breathless, too intense for Tony. Thankfully, an insane homicidal dictator from an Eastern European country stands before him, the perfect panacea for sincerity. Or, his eyes scan the report Jarvis projects on the screen, the robotic decoy of the insane dictator from an Eastern European country.

Turning to Doom, Tony says, “Try all you like, Tin Man. I don’t think the Wizard’s going to give you a heart.” 

There is a pause, and then Doom says, “Your wit, as always, Mr. Stark, is admirable.”

Tony shrugs. “Not a fan of Oz? How about this one? ‘I’ll be back.’ No? Not big on _Terminator_ in good old Lat? What about _2001_? ‘Open the pod bay doors,’ Vic.”

Doom stares at Tony a moment before sighing. “Soon, Mr. Stark, you’ll wish I were my human counterpart. At least then your death would come swiftly. As it were, however…” He trails off and the robots fan out before Tony, their energy canons primed and ready to fire.

Tony draws in a breath and prepares for battle.

At least this time he left a message.

*

Sif lands hard in the pit, crushing two of the robots misfortunate enough to stand beneath her as she fell. Their comrades, however, don’t stop to mourn their loss. Instead, they pounce, diving, clutching, punching, and kicking. She hears the gears grind and metal crack in their limbs from their effort; she feels their blows, shocks that daze her and bring stars to her eyes. Three tackle her legs as she tries to stand and two more slam into her, pinning her flat to the ground. She wrenches against their grip, stilling as one shoots an energy burst in her face. The world lurches around her and dims, but consciousness remains, so she watches the one with the gun slide from the walkway encircling the room down into the pit. It extends an arm; the barrel looms, dark as a maw, prophesying death. 

Lifting her chin, squinting through the blood, Sif faces her foe. 

_I will die a warrior’s death!_

_Stories will be told of this day._

Perhaps they will be. Heimdall could tell them. Surely he watches the plight of the Carrier, his Queen and King, his kin in distress. At the thought of her brother watching her die, Sif renews her struggle. If she must die, she will not die in disgrace. 

The robot to her right raises its hand to punch her again, but it seizes up before it can do so. All the bots seize, they freeze as though suspended; then they begin to convulse. Sif scrambles out of their grasp, her head spinning, her hand raw. She feels a charge along her arms. Swiping the blood from her face, she looks to the walkway for Thor, the feel the same as when he lets his lightning fly from Mjolnir. But rather than Thor, Sif sees Winter at the edge of the cage, his metal arm thrust before him.

_You’re just trying to figure out a way to kill us all, aren’t you?_

The robots twitch a moment more and then fall, inert. Pushing to her feet, Sif watches Winter jump from the cage; he lands lightly amid the carnage. Straightening, he turns toward her. They regard each other, quiet in the wake of destruction. One side of his face is swollen from her punch, his hair stands in disarray around his head, but the veil has lifted from his eyes. No longer do they assess her, as blank as the bots before her. Instead, a storm rages within.

_He is as he is named, vigilant in the suppression of all emotion._

_Layer upon layer block the way._

For the first time, Sif has hope that the crazy scheme enacted by she and Clint Barton, by Loki and the Queen, may have actually worked.

“Do you know who I am?” she asks.

He nods. “Affinity.”

_I am Sif._

_That’s pretty._

_In Midgardian tongues, it means affinity._

She quirks a brow at him, some of the tension within her diminishing. “It’s Sif.”

“Sif,” he says, a faint smile curving his lips. It lingers a moment more and then fades, the storm returning to his eyes. “I… was Bucky.” He frowns at the name. Sif watches him tilt his head to peer down at his left arm; his face spasms at the sight. “Then… then I was Soldier. Winter… But I don’t… Now…” He flounders, lost in himself, in the past.

“The Queen referred to you as James,” she says, wiping again at the blood trickling down her face. “Perhaps you could defer to her judgment.”

He nods, still astray, then his eyes flit back to her, sharp and bright. “Do you?”

“Not in all things,” she admits. “I have been known to be… obstinate at times.”

He grins at that. She sees little of Steve in the impish twist of his lips, in the heat of his gaze. “So have I,” he begins, but he does not continue for his face pales and the smile vanishes and he says, the word low and hoarse, “Natasha.”

_Bucky was the best sharpshooter we had._

_Which means he might’ve been ordered to kill you, but he doesn’t want to kill you, and we both know the reason why._

He looks at Sif, panic flaring bright on his face. She opens her mouth to question his distress only to have him spin away from her and drop to his knees. He searches through the remains of robots then unearths the gun that nearly killed her. He disassembles a portion, his movements swift and precise, reassembles it, and then jumps to his feet. She watches as he starts for the end of the broken walkway. Darting forward, Sif grabs his arm, but he jerks back, wrenching free, nearly causing her to stumble in response, his action as thoughtless, as instinctive, as the strike in the cage.

They remain in place, Sif with her hand in the air, James with his recoiled. He eyes her, his breath coming fast, his metal hand clenching and unclenching by his side. Lowering her hand, Sif breathes in and tries to calm the pounding of her heart. “I wish to aid you,” she says, pitching her voice low. “Not restrain you. I have come to view Natasha as an ally, perhaps even a friend. Allow me to assist you, if I may.” 

He does not move. She endures his scrutiny, hoping she interpreted his mien correctly, his desire to save Natasha rather than slay her. After a moment more, James nods, his body relaxing. 

“What has occurred with Natasha?” she asks. “How may I help?”

James inhales a ragged breath. He licks his lips. He does not look at her as he says, “My mission was to infiltrate the Carrier. To kill Natalia… Natasha. With it, I was to distract Loki. But if I can’t… If I won’t…”

_I would love to stay and test the properties of that remarkable sword._

_But since Winter cannot fulfill his duty, the task instead falls to me._

“Doom intends to complete your task.”

James nods. Sif turns, searches for a moment, and then strides past him, recovering her sword from beneath two robots. She feels strength return to her right leg, though her maimed hand still pulses with pain, as does her head. But she can stand and she can see. She can strike. 

She can kill.

_How will you help?_

_I will kill Doom._

James considers her, his gaze dark and unreadable. Sif faces him and arches a brow. “Do you doubt my ability to assist?” she asks, raising the sword before her.

He shakes his head, but provides no further clarification. She watches as he turns and leaps up to the walkway, grabbing the metal grating before lifting himself up. At the top, he glances back at her. Narrowing her eyes, Sif takes two steps and then springs from the pit, landing lightly on the edge of the walkway, poised on tip toes before the rail. Without looking at James, she slings her legs over and peers down at him from the other side. She finds the sly smile again on his face. A beat passes in which they look at each other and then Sif turns and strides to the door. 

As her hand falls upon the knob, she hears him follow and together they step once more into the din. 

*

Dazed from the explosion, though not as much as the first time in Latveria, Natasha weak then from torture, she tries to move, to slink back into the passage so she can collect the gun, but when she tries, she realizes that she can’t, her feet now fixed to the floor.

_She’s not going anywhere._

_Not while I’m here._

Glancing up, she sees the last and final Doom, the real one, his faceplate now removed, his eyes dark and fixed upon her, standing at the end of the aisle. Pushing up, she finds she can stand and she does, testing, in the movement, the hold that he has upon her. However Doom denies her further mobility. Her throat aching, her nerves singing from the Helm of Awe, Natasha waits, one knife on her thigh, a baton in her boot, and her gauntlets strapped to her wrists.

In the settling dust, Doom eases closer, and the change that she sees in him stuns her. In Venice and Latveria, he stood robust with power, handsome and arrogant and bold. The power remains, though projected now from a face both pale and gaunt, one haunted by dark smudges beneath the eyes. Her surprise must show, for he arches a brow and says, “The cost of knowledge. I may yet recover from this cost. The same, however, cannot be said for you.”

_Have your AI inform Ms. Romanova that, when I return from Asgard, she will suffer for murdering Anna._

Doom continues forward, removing, as he does, his gloves. “Though I would love nothing more than to fulfill my promise to Loki to make you burn, the inferno spell demands too much energy, energy which I still require.” He tosses his gloves to the floor. Natasha, again, tries to move, to twist her head, to raise her hand, but he holds her firmly in place. Smiling faintly at her efforts, he stops before her. Doom regards her a moment and then lifts a hand toward her face. Natasha closes her eyes, waiting for the Helm to fire. But it doesn’t. She feels the rough skin of his palm upon her face, but nothing from the rune, no spark, no tingle in her cheek.

And it is then she knows that death has finally come for her.

As if he knows, Doom says, “Magic, unfortunately, has its limits, even a spell as remarkable as the Helm of Awe. In five minutes perhaps, or possibly in ten, the rune would recharge, drawing life from Loki with which to protect you, and then you would be safe. But this will not take five minutes. This will not even take one. But that is more time, I am sure, than you gave to Anna.” 

Doom drops his hand. Natasha opens her eyes. She watches as he leans over. He yanks her knife from its fastening. The blade gleams in the light. 

_Did you know that Anna trained me in the Red Room?_

_Knives were her favorite. She loved the intimacy of the kill at the tip of a knife._

Holding the blade before her, he says, “A fitting end, wouldn’t you say? Knives were, after all, her favorite.” 

Natasha tries to twist away, but the spell restrains her. She has never feared dying, only at the wrong time or for the wrong reason. For the right cause, the right mission, the right person—

_Your world again in the balance, and you still bargain for one man._

_What can I say? I guess I’m just sentimental that way._

But she needs more time.

_You’re the most important person in the world to me. You’re my family._

_I love you. And I know you love me._

Doom regards her, his head tilted to one side. “Do you await his rescue, Agent Romanov? I must say, I am surprised he did not remain by your side, given my previous threat.” 

_What lengths would a man such as he go to in order to rescue a woman such as you?_

_Took you long enough._

_You look—_

Doom leans in closer, so close that she can see flecks of green within the blues of his eyes. “Loki will learn now from his arrogance. They all will. I did.”

Natasha keeps her eyes fixed on his face, on his cold, dead mask. She will not give him the satisfaction of her fear.

_You can’t break me._

_I hate you too much for that happen._

In the distance, she hears the airlock release on the door. The handle jiggles then a kick resounds as the person on the other side tries to fight past the welded metal. It is then that Doom smiles. 

_Someday, Natasha—_

_You look—_

Doom grabs her hair, yanks her head back.

_Don’t worry. I’m nothing, remember?_

_How can this hurt if I’m not real?_

They had come so far, fought so much. 

_There’s nothing for me here._

_There’s everything for you here._

Despite the sins of his past and hers too, they had found each other, she and Loki had found each other, and he had dared her to feel and she had dared him to love, and she thought, she thought, she thought they had more time.

_How long do I have?_

_How long do you need?_

More. She needed more. He needed more.

_You are worth saving. Even if you don’t believe it, I do._

Faith in one’s self does not come easy, not for someone such as I, not for something such as this.

Doom positions the knife.

_Is this love, Agent Romanov?_

_Sometimes I think this is still a dream. You came to me in July, and you changed my life. So… quickly. So completely._

_How could this be real?_

_Because it is._

_Because it is._

The knife slashes across her throat in a quick, sharp arc.

_Isn’t it funny?_

_Isn’t it funny the way the worlds turn and the fates fall?_

*


	46. Blow Up the Outside World, Part Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha stares at the inn, her hands clenched by her sides. The gesture, though, does not stop her shaking. Loki moves closer, to the edge of the top step. The movement catches her eye and she turns and finds him. They stare at each other across the distance. The breeze blows her hair back; the crimson strands ripple and swirl about her head. Loki sees the tears in her eyes and it is then that he knows she is dying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More violence and fighting occur. More naughty language, too. Also, as before with the Clint & Loki and Tony & Natasha deleted scenes, I like the deleted scene from Thor between Odin & Frigga when they argue about banishing Thor so much that it has been appropriated as canon for the fic.

Remembrance of Things Past  
Part Forty-Four: Blow Up the Outside World, Part Four

 

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Tony winces as the hangar bay reverberates from his collision with the plane. The twisted metal enfolds him, cradling him above the ground. He watches the six robots that tag-teamed to hurl him into the cargo ship bob and weave and wait for their prey to pry loose. Five of their cohorts Tony shredded earlier with the finest artillery Stark R&D has to offer. The other one works with the Doombot in the distance to continue their sabotage of the planes. 

“Well,” he says as he draws in a deep breath, his head ringing from the impact, “that sucked.”

“You are correct in that, sir.” 

“You know, any help you want to throw my way, Jarvis, would not go unappreciated.” 

“I’m trying, sir, but the robots have evaded all my attempts to break their systems. I’m afraid I will need direct access, a difficult task given our current status.”

“You mean one Good Witch away from crashing?”

“Yes.”

Sighing, Tony presses against the plane, wrenching free and then sliding to the ground. As soon as his feet touch the floor, the robots lunge for him, but he lifts off, spinning in midair to fire a pulse of energy at the pack. They scatter, allowing him to twist and barrel towards the Doombot. The robot with him spots Tony first and shoots, but Tony flies through the blast, absorbing the energy into the suit. As he passes overhead, he grabs the Doombot’s cape and heaves, yanking him along for the ride. 

They twist through the air, out of the hangar, and into the sky. There, Tony hurls, throwing the Doombot before him, before activating four rockets. The Doombot triggers its turbines, catching flight, as the rockets eject. Doom targets one, melting it with a blast, its power significantly more potent than that of its henchmen. Tony leaves him to deal with the other three, turning and flying back into the bay. Curling up, he plows into the vandalizing bot feet first, kicking it through the wall and into the hall. Before he can fly away though, the others seize upon his low trajectory and pounce, bringing him down to the ground. 

They land in a heap, crashing into and then through the wheels of a helicopter. The bird wobbles and falls, crushing one of the bots that had fallen behind. The other five set on Tony, kicking and punching, slamming into him. He feels the blows in his suit. 

“Sir, may I suggest—”

“No, got to save it for the T-1000 outside.” 

Two of the robots rear back, poised to kick at Tony. He twists away, right into broken wheel of the helicopter, wielded by the third like a baseball bat. Tony staggers back, priming rockets at the four bots, but three dart away before he can fire, sensing the change. The fourth stays, sacrificing itself, catching the rocket and slamming it down onto Tony’s chest as it explodes. He slams back into the wall, his systems shorting, but the suit holds.

“Sir—”

“Not now, Jarvis.”

Thrusters igniting, Tony shoots from the wall out into the hangar. He weaves around the bots as they fire energy blasts at him, dodging all but the concussive blast from the Doombot, flying overhead, his armor charred and smoking. The blast knocks Tony to the ground once more and he slides headfirst into another plane.

“Sir, the Captain calls for you.”

Tony pushes to his knees, only to fall again as the Doombot kicks him in the face. He rolls to his back, lifting his hands to fire. “He can leave a message.”

One of the robots, the one Tony kicked through the wall, leaps before the Doombot, blocking the energy bolts. Before Tony can fire again, the Doombot grabs the robot midair and wrenches his arm over and down, slamming the bot into Tony.

“Sir, you need assistance—”

“No,” he says, calling for the rest of his rockets. “Under no circumstances do you tell him I need help. He can’t save everyone. I’m fine on my own.” Thrusters engaging, Tony shoots away, right into the waiting arms of one of the bots. As the rockets prep, his sensors flash and flare and then, before he can retreat or the rockets release, the robot explodes. 

*

At the cage, destruction reigns. Steve stares down into the pit, his hands clutching the rail of the perimeter walkway. Dozens of robots lay heaped one upon another, like crumpled dolls tossed aside in a rage. He sees no wounds to explain their inactivity, not as the others, hacked apart and broken, scattered amongst the remains. How then? Jarvis? Steve knows that he had been working on a way to decommission the bots, but if he had found a way to do so, he would have done so for all of the bots on the ship, not just these. Others remained, fighting elsewhere in the ship, so how?

In a moment, the answer comes.

_Are they alive?_

_I don’t know. I lost the feed a few minutes ago._

Steve straightens, his eyes widening. An EMP would disrupt the camera feed and dismantle the robots. Sif would never use such a weapon, would, perhaps, not even know of its existence. And Maria would not have sent anyone to the cage to aid in the fight, not with the robots targeting the engines. Doom killing his own army seemed unlikely, too, not with victory so close at hand. So that left only one source, only one possibility for the eradication below. And if he had fought against the robots, then he had fought against Doom, and if he had fought against Doom, then he must, he must, he must remember.

_He doesn’t remember, but if he did, he would help._

He was right. He had been right about Bucky. Allowing a small smile of relief, Steve inspects the scene, trying to piece together the parts and form a coherent picture of what occurred. Amid the bots, in the space beneath the cage, he sees blood. Blood also stains the rail that dangles from the cage. Either Bucky or Sif had been wounded, perhaps both, Doom unlikely to bleed outside of his suit, yet the absence of any bodies indicates that they lived. There would be no reason for Doom to move them if they died, no tactical advantage to such a maneuver. So all had left, Sif and Bucky and Doom, either they in pursuit of him or he in pursuit of them.

_How will you help?_

_I will kill Doom._

At the memory of her face, the set of her jaw and the determination in her eyes, Steve knows that Sif would not have run. She would have fought to her last breath to kill Doom, so she must have gone after him. They must have gone after him, she and Bucky together.

Turning from the cage, Steve activates the comm in his ear. “Tony? Tony, can you hear me?” 

No response greets him. Steve strides from the room, waiting for a response. Stopping in the hall, he stares, his eyes drifting, waiting, and then he sees what he did not see on first approach, blinded by his haste. He sees the blood on the floor. Eyes darting from drop to drop, Steve follows the trail, emboldened by the progress, yet the silence in his ear tugs at him, dividing his attention, a silent Tony worrisome.

_I’ll track down the Dooms, try to get a bead on the real one._

Had he found a Doom? Is this the reason for his silence, Tony fighting now? Steve stops in the middle of an intersection and raises a hand to his comm again. “Tony? Answer me. I—”

Static bursts in his ear and then the crisp voice of Jarvis speaks. “Apologies, sir, for the delay.”

“Where’s Tony?”

Jarvis hesitates, the briefest of pauses, and Steve’s gut grows cold at the implication. “Did he tell you not to tell me?”

“Yes, sir.”

_I know what you’re going to say. You think I should have told you._

_Then you could have gone rushing off to save your damsels like you wanted to the minute Doom arrived._

Drops of blood gleam on the tile floor, a winding trail leading further back into the ship. “Is he okay?”

Again, Jarvis does not respond.

_I’ve seen the footage. The only thing you really fight for is yourself._

_You’re not the type to make the sacrifice play._

Steve swallows hard; he rubs a hand across his face. In his silence, Jarvis says, “I’m sorry, sir, but I promised. Mr. Stark told me under no circumstances to inform you. He wanted—”

“I know what he wanted.”

_They don’t need me. They have you. You’re the golden boy._

_You’re the one who made us a family._

Steve knows. 

_I did nothing. I just lay there, and I watched him die. I watched him burn to death._

_Then do something now. Help me._

He understands.

_Fury. ‘Help Rogers.’ Jesus Christ._

The pieces fall into place and the coherent picture forms. Fury asked Tony to help Steve. And he has, focusing on Doom, trying to unravel the mystery behind his mode of travel. He tried to help the team past themselves, bringing in Darcy, keeping the truth about Bucky and Sif from Steve, so they could do what needs to be done, so they could stop Doom and save Asgard. Yet Steve resisted, too focused on himself, on his, as Tony said, emotional bullshit, and now Tony fights alone.

“Jarvis, where are the Dooms? Did he tell you not to tell me that?”

The relief in Jarvis’ voice is palpable. “No, sir. He did not. Seven arrived in total. Deck footage shows one exploding along with twenty of his fellows. One now stands there with Thor. One Mr. Banner smashed to protect Ms. Foster. Three Dooms remain missing. And one is currently to be found in the hangar bay.”

Steve looks at the blood. He wants to go, Sif his future and Bucky his past, but at least they were together, unlike Tony. And he can’t let Tony die alone. Not again. 

_Stark, you know that’s a one-way trip._

_Close it._

Not because of him.

*

Snow falls in Switzerland, capping the mountain peaks, slicking the gravestones that surround Loki in the churchyard. The grass, frozen and brittle, crunches beneath his boots as he walks down the stone path to the stairs. Peering down the hill, he sees the black ribbon of road weaving through the small town, past the inn in which he and Natasha had stayed, past the pharmacy with the neon cross. The light stains the snow a deep crimson. Frowning, Loki is about to turn, to check the church, Frigga waiting for him there the prior two times that he came, but then he sees Natasha in the distance, standing on the road before the inn.

She stares at the inn, her hands clenched by her sides. The gesture, though, does not stop her shaking. Loki moves closer, to the edge of the top step. The movement catches her eye and she turns and finds him. They stare at each other across the distance. The breeze blows her hair back; the crimson strands ripple and swirl about her head. Loki sees the tears in her eyes and it is then that he knows she is dying.

_We could go to Paris and just sit, just sit in a café and drink wine and we don’t have to think about Doom or S.H.I.E.L.D. or spying._

_We could just… we could just be._

_We could just be Loki and Natasha._

The gasp catches in his chest. 

_It’s too late._

_It’s too late to stop it._

Then the ground starts to quake beneath his feet.

“Loki.”

Loki closes his eyes at the sound of his voice, potent still even in death. But who would expect anything less from the King of the Aesir, from Odin All-Father?

“Loki. You must listen to me. Time wanes. He comes for you. Asgard is not safe.”

_A leaf falls and a millennia may pass._

_Asgard evades even death._

Loki opens his eyes. In the distance, where Natasha stood, all he sees is blood.

At the sight, the pavement splits and the cross cracks and his hands fist by his sides.

_Remuneration for stolen funds._

With mischief, he knows, one nudges the even keel of a realm ever so slightly, disarranging just one piece from the set order of the board. With mayhem, one grabs the board and hurls, watching as the pieces fly into the air and scatter, some landing upright, just as they were, others smashing into bits as they crash to the ground. This has been neither mischief nor mayhem, but the careful workings of a plan.

One now that he fully understands.

“Do you?” Odin asks.

He does.

_How exactly will you feel when I leave here and burn Natalia Romanova until she is nothing more than ash?_

_She is beyond your reach._

_He will come after you. I have made sure of it._

Loki knows.

_If she will not burn, then you will. Your world will burn. I will find Asgard. I will lay waste to whatever you care for there, and all you will be able to do is watch in despair._

_Victor searches for your world. From Vanko, he has the means to reach it. All he needs is a location._

_Doom has all of Jane’s research about Asgard. He has a location._

He understands.

_I would like to know how a simple man from Midgard was able to learn such magic._

_You’re not the only one who’s been off world._

The world wavers before him, tears hot in his eyes. The gravestones shatter, the sound rending the air like the sharp snap of bone.

He hears Odin move behind him. “Loki, this is what he desires. You must see beyond yourself.”

_What within you elicits such loyalty?_

_You do not know?_

_See beyond yourself, Odinson. See what they see._

Natasha flickers again in the distance, her eyes closed.

_Sometimes, you know so much, and I wonder if you can read minds, like Frigga._

_But then sometimes you see nothing at all._

Loki sees now. He sees the plan and the parts and the moves left to play.

He sees the pieces sacrificed in the effort.

_I got shot. It happens._

_Do you even know why you’re supposed to kill her?_

_I love you. And I know you love me._

The church windows shatter and the saint, prostrate, supplicant on the table, smashes upon the ground. The scream swells within his throat but sticks, choking him. 

“Loki, you must hear me. You must cast aside your rage. He places more than one life in peril.”

_If I am not Asgard, then who is?_

_I will do your duty for you. And you will do mine for me._

“Thor needs you. Frigga needs you.”

_You are my brother, but what am I to you?_

_You are our son, Loki. And we your family._

He feels Odin lay a hand on his shoulder.

He sees the blood bright on the snow.

_You care for her. You shouldn’t. She was not made for love._

_Then she is perfect. For I am not someone to be loved._

But she does. She does. She loves him. Natasha loves him. And he had never believed in love before, the thought no more than light from a distant star, a pale, insubstantial flicker in the heavens. But Natasha had made him believe. She had made him believe that he could be Loki, no Laufeyson, no Odinson, just Loki, sins and all; she had made him believe that that was worth something, that he was worth something, that he was worth fighting for, that he even, remarkably, surprisingly, miraculously, was worth loving. So slight a thing, but so strong, strong enough to save him, to look into the eyes of the beast and not flinch, strong enough to dare him to be more, to dare him to change.

_How did you stop being who you were and become who you are?_

_Someone gave me a chance. And I made a choice._

_We choose who we are. What we become._

_Choose wisely, Odinson._

Loki understands the plan. And he makes his move, taking a step down the stairs.

“Loki, no.”

_No, Loki._

_But this is what I do. This is who I am._

His eyes open to sky instead of snow, to his brother rather than his father. Thor stares down at him, his brow furrowed, blood leaking from his nose and mouth, clotting his hair and beard. Loki feels his own face sticky with blood, his nose broken again; his left arm juts from his body, his shoulder once more dislocated. He had conjured the protection shield moments after detonation, but the shield had merely blunted the blasts, not blocked them completely. He had slammed back onto the deck, the force of impact as hard as his fall in the sky above Switzerland with Doom.

“Are you able to move?” Thor asks.

Loki nods. He eases into a sitting position and finds that they lie in the only flat patch of deck in a twenty-yard radius. The rest of the metal roils, blackened and warped. A few fragments of robots linger around them, two, he sees, from the false Doom. Loki narrows his eyes at the sight.

_No, son of Odin. I don’t intend to win._

_Death is my goal, starting with yours._

Thor had not died and neither had Loki, but the image of Natasha by the inn flashes before his eyes. At the remembrance, the pieces on the deck begin to rattle. 

_Remuneration for stolen funds._

_I got shot. It happens._

Loki stands, his left arm dangling useless by his side. He closes his eyes and searches for her, for the faint trace of himself in the Helm of Awe, but he senses nothing, sees nothing, finds nothing.

_You think you know pain?_

“Loki.”

Loki opens his eyes. Before him and Thor, a doorway widens on the deck. The portal expands to the size of a man, wobbling briefly before stabilizing. Once it does, Doom steps through. He wears his armor, dented and burned, but without faceplate or gloves.

The better for Loki to see the blood on his hands.

_You think you know pain?_

Doom finds him across the distance. Before, the change in the man would have shocked Loki. But now he understands. A better man, perhaps, would feel pity. But Loki is not the better man. 

Instead, he looks at Doom and all he sees is death.

_You think you know pain? He will make you long for something as sweet as pain._

Doom raises his hands before him. He regards the blood, the slow trickle of a drop down his palm to the deck below. When he speaks, Loki hears no crow of triumph. The voice, instead, is soft, contemplative. Exhausted. “She fought bravely, thinking, I am sure, of you until the end.” He looks at Loki, and the desperation in his gaze is familiar. As is the rage. “Just as you may now fight bravely to save her. What lengths would a man such as you go to in order to rescue a woman such as her?”

_You know the cost is high._

_What was it for you?_

_It was paradise._

Did Odin know this even then, even as he sacrificed himself in Paris? Did he see how the pieces came together and fit? Was his death no more than a manipulation to sway Loki away from his hate, away from his exile, back to Asgard to choose it, to save it?

_You are Loki, of Asgard. You are my son._

_And someday, someday I will see you in Valhalla._

Loki sees now. He understands.

_Asgard is a glorious dream. It is a wondrous lie. I look into its golden halls, and I see myself reflected there._

_But I also see the falsehood in its beating heart, the cruelty in the All-Father, who stole a child to secure peace when he could not._

Doom looks at him and raises a brow.

Thor turns to him and lays a hand on his arm.

When he does, Loki jerks away.

When he does, Doom smiles.

“She’s in the weapons vault, last row, beside the broken walkway.”

Loki sees Thor look from him to Doom. He begins to speak, to reach once more for Loki, but Loki turns from him. He pictures the vault in his mind, the space where he stole the Tesseract spear in his frantic flight from Natasha, from the lies of St. Petersburg and the betrayal that was, he knows now, to help him. Loki envisions the space and then the air crackles, green light flashes, and he teleports away. 

*

When he hears the explosion inside the weapons vault, Clint runs. He knows the sound of rocket launchers and grenades, the pop of land mines and the combustible tips of his own trick arrows. But this explosion resembles none of those. In this explosion, he hears the squall of the Tesseract and the sizzle of wires. He hears Loki and Doom.

He hears Natasha.

At the keypad, Clint punches in his code. The airlock releases and he yanks on the handle, but the door does not budge. He pulls again, his muscles straining, his feet sliding against the floor, but the door refuses to give. Darcy skitters to a stop behind him, breathless, as Clint kicks at the handle, the absence of sound in the room inciting panic within him, but the kick, like the pull, does nothing. Only a hollow clang sounds from his efforts. Taking a step back, Clint reaches for his acid arrow to dissolve the lock when Darcy lays a hand on his arm.

“Wait,” she says. “It’s like melted shut or something. Look.”

She points to the left side of the door. Between it and the frame Clint sees bulging metal, a sign, indeed, of the two sides being fused together. He eases back, his mouth going dry and his heart pounding in his chest.

“Is there another way in?” Darcy asks, eyeing Clint as he eyes the door.

He shakes his head. The acid, perhaps, could still work, but that would take time to eat through the melted metal. Steel also lined the walls and the floor surrounding the door. Maybe two bomb tips back to back could wrench a hole big enough for Clint to slide through. Maybe. He wishes he had added a few of the Phase 2 tips to his arsenal, but the thought had made him squirm, his unease about Loki dominating all and Phase 2 deriving from him. Clint had meant after their confrontation at the cage to add them in, the mere thought of Loki no longer an instantaneous source of revulsion, but he never had, forgetting to, too focused on Darcy and her lips and the glint in her eyes as she kissed him.

Turning to her now, he says, “Go wait in the stairwell. I’m going to blow—”

“Darcy!”

Clint turns as Darcy does to find Jane halfway down the hall. Behind her, he sees the Hulk loom, a giant green bodyguard. At the sight, hope blooms within Clint’s chest. Before Darcy can respond or Jane can continue, he speaks, his eyes on Bruce. “Natasha’s trapped inside the vault with Doom. The door’s welded shut. We need to get inside.”

The Hulk looks beyond Clint to the door. Then his eyes narrow and his hands clench into fists. Clint watches as he steps in front of Jane, as he eases her back with one mammoth fist. Then he begins to charge. Clint grabs Darcy’s hand and pushes her against the wall, covering her body with his own. The floor begins to shakes as the Hulk draws closer; the vibrations jar Clint’s legs and snap his teeth together. He feels Darcy tense beneath him and he does too and then the beast flies by, the air snapping, the tile cracking as he passes. With a roar, the Hulk flings himself against the door. The unstoppable force meets the immovable object and the hall explodes from the impact. The floor quakes and the wall shudders; screeching metal shreds the sonic boom; and then the heady quiet of a storm falls, the portentous pause between lightning and thunder.

Glancing up, Clint finds a ragged hole in place of the door. The Hulk stands just inside the vault in the midst of a hazy cloud of dust and debris. As he disappears into the darkness to search for Natasha, Clint eases back from Darcy. She turns in his arms and he says to her, his voice muffled and distant from the ringing in his ears, “Stay here. Protect Jane. Just in case.”

She nods and mouths ‘watch your back’ and he nods in response before turning and sprinting for the vault. Notching an arrow, he jumps through the hole. In the center aisle, he sees scattered bits of the Mark VIII and beyond a decoy Doom twisted and broken and burning on the floor. Cases fallen from the shelves litter the passageways. Clint eases forward, his bow raised and ready to strike. The Hulk stands six aisles down, scanning the rows. Clint starts to move toward him, but then the air crackles, green light flashes, and Loki appears in the middle of the vault. 

He turns and looks at Clint, and when he does, Clint knows that Natasha is dead.

“No.”

_You’re the most important person in the world to me._

“No,” he says again.

_You’re my family._

No denial issues from Loki’s lips. Instead, he pivots and races down the aisle, shoving the Hulk aside with a flick of his wrist. Clint follows, his feet compelling him forward, his brain numb to the reality materializing before him. Toward the end of the vault, Loki darts down a row to the left. Clint follows, skidding to a stop as he rounds the corner, Loki standing only a foot inside.

He sees the blood first, the red pool reflecting the harsh light above. Then, stepping to the side, he sees her hand, the palm down, and her arm, the limb thrust before her as she had tried to crawl to the passageway. Shoving past Loki, Clint drops to his knees beside Natasha. He hears a faint wheeze of breath in her chest, a choked gurgle in her throat. Grabbing her shoulders, Clint starts to ease her onto her back. Hands appear to help him, Bruce, no longer the Hulk; he kneels beside them, peering down at Natasha, at the wound, red and raw, slick and jagged, a farce of a smile on her slim, pale throat. Blood pulses faintly from the gash, the last gasp against death.

_Natasha, what happened?_

_Nothing I can’t handle._

“We need to put pressure on the wound.”

“Oh my god.”

“Jane, give me your jacket.”

In Prague, Clint had saved her. In Estonia, he had saved her. In Budapest and Kabul and Dublin and in Seoul, in Mombasa and New York and Rio and Vancouver, in all those cities and so many more, he had saved her. And Natasha had saved him. In the tangled geometry of his life, in the rambling path from orphan to carnie to drifter to grifter to spy, she had become a fixed point, as sure to Clint as his arrows and bow. 

And now again he faces the prospect of life without her. 

“No.”

A hand falls onto his arm, warm and shaking. “Clint…”

Looking up, he locks eyes not with Darcy, who crouches beside him, but with Loki, who stands where he stood before. When he does, he sees the resolve within Loki flicker.

_You call me a monster as though I don’t know this, but I harbor no more self-delusions._

_I was a monster._

_Now I will try not to be._

From the moment Clint had woken in the Carrier, tied to the bed, sweating, shaking, caught in the midst of maddening memory and muddled oblivion, Loki had haunted him, tormenting him in his dreams and waking hours, a vision of a smirking, scheming demon who had seized his will, who had made him kill. The thought of humanity in such a one as he had defied his ability to comprehend. But when Clint looks at Loki now, he sees the tears that prick his own eyes, he sees the rage that burns within him too, he sees the gaping maw that will form at the thought of a life without Natasha.

He sees, strangely, impossibly, surprisingly, alarmingly, undeniably, himself.

_You have heart._

What would they do? What would they do to save her?

_When you leave to rescue Natasha, I will accompany you._

_He can do what he says. Give him his window._

Loki looks at Clint. 

_I do this because it must be done and no one else can, or will, do so._

_And you and I know that, if the situation were reversed, if she rather than Winter waited for us in the cage, her mind torn asunder by the Academy, you would demand for me to do the same._

What would they do?

Whatever they had to, no matter the cost.

“Do it,” he says.

Bruce looks at him, his hands covered in blood. “What?”

“Do it,” he says again, still focused on Loki.

Loki stares at him, his expression unreadable. Then he nods and closes his eyes.

*

Thor watches the last of the green light fade, seizing with it his brother and the last of his hope. Why had Loki rejected his hand, his offer of consolation in the wake of his loss? He knows their differing opinions toward Asgard strains their bond, but Loki had come. He had fought alongside Thor of his own volition. His enmity then was conquerable, manageable, in the face of a greater foe. So why reject Thor now?

_What lengths would a man such as you go to in order to rescue a woman such as her?_

Thor looks at Doom. The smile lingers upon his face, formed when Loki had turned to him. Only then had Doom revealed Natasha’s location. The price, it seems, for that information had been Thor. But to what end?

_Do you know magic, Barton? Do you any of you?_

_Because while Doom is sure to be surrounded by his mechanical contraptions, he will also use sorcery to defend himself._

_And he is formidable with magic._

Whatever Doom intended with this assault must include magic. Only Loki and Frigga wielded a similar power. Only they, as a result, would be able to counteract his plan. One now had been drawn away, Loki electing to save his love. Perhaps Frigga had as well, his mother caring for Natasha too. But then the clouds begin to rise around the deck, the ship begins to descend, the descent graceful, too fluid for the smoking engines, the work, then, of his mother. She protects them all as Loki does Natasha, and now Thor must protect them. 

He must defeat Doom.

Opening his hand, he calls for Mjolnir. The leather grip smacks into his palm; Thor adjusts his hold and faces Doom. As he does, Doom raises a brow, but he shows no other sign of concern or alarm, no other preparation for the fight. At this, Thor frowns, and at his frown, Doom laughs.

“Do you expect fear, Asgardian? Or surrender, perhaps?”

Thor shakes his head. “Merely recognition of the fight that is to come.”

Doom glances down at his bloodied hands. His laughter fades, and shadows once more darken his eyes. “There will be no fight,” he says, his voice quiet in the rush of the wind.

“No?” Thor asks, moving toward him. “I care for these people you have tortured and slain. You have threatened my world and my family. Why would I not fight?”

“It is not that you would not fight,” Doom says as he looks up at Thor, as the ship stops in its descent. “It is that you should not. Your aim is to end this conflict, with my surrender or my death, but if you approach, I will simply teleport away and do what I intend to do there.”

Thor clenches his hand around Mjolnir. “So I should refrain from action so that I may watch you destroy those I love?”

Doom shakes his head. “No. You should refrain so that you may do for me what you have done for your brother. Convince me I should stay my hand. Prove to me your mercy, son of Odin, and I, perhaps, shall show you mine.”

*

The Carrier bears down upon Frigga, but the weight of the ship is slight compared to the strain of the unknown. From the corners of her eyes, she watches the Director attempt to hail Natasha, the contact between them severed, the cause uncertain. Attempts occur, fade, and then silence reigns. Frigga sees the dilemma: sending soldiers to seek Natasha lessens those available to defend against the foes besieging them now. She sees Maria look at the growing list of casualties and catastrophes on the screen. Her gaze flits to Frigga, landing only to alight when Frigga returns her stare. Maria licks her lips, studies the chaos of command, and then turns, from Frigga and from Natasha, her decision made.

_And what would you have done?_

_I would not have exiled him to a world of mortals, stripped of his powers to suffer alone. I would not have had the heart._

_That is why I am king._

Odin chose for the many, for the good of the nine realms, even at the expense of his sons. Time and again, she heeded those decisions, lying to Loki, banishing Thor, though she had chafed beneath their ruthlessness. But a Queen must buttress her King, though the backing bore down upon her, wearisome in the face of Thor and Natasha and their ceaseless battle for one.

For Loki.

_Odin is king and therefore must consider the people of the Nine Realms in his decisions._

_I, however, need only consider my sons._

She had dissented then. Must she regress now? Must she sacrifice Natasha for faceless soldiers, for the greater good? Closing her eyes, Frigga tries to reach out, to find Natasha amid the din, yet at the slight lapse, the ship begins to slide from her grip. She clamps down upon it, closing her mind as she closed her eyes, chafing again. 

She feels a hand on her arm. Frigga opens her eyes and finds Maria beside her, her face pale yet with hope. “Jarvis just reported in. Stark can’t fix the engine. Can you get us to the ground?”

Frigga nods. Breathing in, she pushes as she pulled before, easing the Carrier through the sky. The clouds caress her, cool against her skin. She feels Thor on her deck, but she feels nothing of Loki though she knows he had fought alongside his brother. Again, she closes her eyes, striving to fix her focus on the task at hand, she can search once she has done, but then pain rips through her mind, shredding her hold on the Carrier and bringing her to her knees. 

_You think you know pain?_

_Let him come._

_I love you. And I know you love me._

“Frigga?”

Gasping, Frigga opens her eyes, but she sees neither command nor Maria, but Natasha prone on the floor, blood beneath her, near death. Agent Barton sits nearby. And his pain, their pain, Loki projects both to her, pricks and punctures and perforates her hold, causing the ship to shift in the slightest tilt.

“Frigga, are you all right?”

Maria fades, Command fades, only Loki and Natasha remain before Frigga, Natasha still upon the floor and Loki fraying beside her. He heightens the color of the blood, assaults Frigga with the smell. He awashes her in red. 

_Heimdall, what has happened?_

_The man with the gun fired upon her before the Bifrost descended._

Frigga closes her eyes, but Loki seizes the memory, pushing past defenses weakened in her effort to buoy the ship. She sees Natasha, dizzy from the Bifrost and her gunshot. She remembers the blood and tries to resist, but the words surface at the will of her son.

_I can do no more._

_I know little about Midgardian physiology._

“A useful lie,” he says, peering down at her. “You wielded Natasha’s wound as a weapon to reel me in, manipulating her to manipulate me.” Loki kneels before her, his eyes bright, burning with rage. “How very Odin of you.”

The scorn in his voice makes her ache. “Loki…”

“Was it you?” he asks, leaning close to her. “As Odin, you would have born witness to my last request. You would have seen my conversation with Natasha, but unlike Odin, you would have understood its import. Odin understood not love. Not as you have. Not as you do.”

_I would not have exiled him to a world of mortals, stripped of his powers to suffer alone._

_I would not have had the heart._

“Did you?” he asks. “Did you scheme with the All-Father to place Natasha in my path, seeing how I would feel for her?”

_I hope that you succeed in your endeavor. I miss my son and desire for him to return._

“Tell me,” he says, ruthless in his desperation for her aid. “Did you do it? Did you? Did you?”

Frigga inhales, her breath as ragged as her hold on the ship. “I desired to help you.”

Loki leans back, his expression grim in his triumph. He is silent a moment, regarding her through narrowed eyes. When he speaks, the tremor in his voice rips her heart in two. “You desired to help. Yet, as Odin, you believed the most expedient way to secure your desire was through using another.”

_I thought we could unite our kingdoms one day. Bring about an alliance. Bring about permanent peace, through you._

_I cannot lift the Casket from the pedestal. But you possess the life of a Frost Giant within you._

“All along you have used her as your tool.”

_Do not lie to him, for he will see it, but do not bow to him either, for he will respect you for it._

_You risked death before to find Loki, to help him. Will you do the same now?_

“Bravo, Frigga. You are your husband’s wife.”

“And you are your mother’s son.” Waving a hand, she propels his projected form back; then she pushes to her feet, her step precarious, her hold tremulous. Striving for control, she looks at her son, pausing a moment before saying, “You prod my guilt concerning my actions, for my part in placing Natasha upon this path. But do you deny yours? You—”

But Frigga stops as Loki tenses. His eyes widen and he looks off to the side, beyond command, back to where he stands. She watches as he takes a step back; he raises a hand, flickers once, and then is gone. Natasha vanishes before her as well, and the chaos of command descends again. Heart pounding, she extends her senses. The ship rocks from her efforts, but she must know. She must see. 

“Frigga?” 

Ignoring Maria, Frigga reaches for the storage unit. The gasp catches in her chest. 

“Jane.”

_He misses her, the mortal._

Turning to Maria, she says, “Prepare yourself. Soon I must let go.”

Maria frowns. “What? Why—”

But Frigga closes her eyes without response and teleports from command.

*


	47. Blow Up the Outside World, Part Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frowning, Steve turns back around. Doom stands in the middle of the hangar beside Tony, his boot on Tony’s neck. He stares at Steve, a gun in his hand. Slowly, Doom lowers the gun until it points at Tony, divested of the entirety of his helmet and faceplate. “Normally,” he says, “I avoid the use of firearms, preferring instead the weaponry in my suit. They do, however, create a far more dramatic picture and thus a far more potent threat. Now, I suggest you don’t move.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter titles for this battle sequence are from the Soundgarden song “Blow Up the Outside World.” A lot of the events in this chapter happen simultaneously; hopefully the time marker of the alarm will help keep the order of events straight. Also, I’ve used information from Thor: The Dark World in this chapter, not related to that movie’s plot, but the background information given to us about the House of Odin and Asgard (i.e. the realm’s history, geography, traditions, etc.). Many thanks to samantha_shakespeare for taking the time to beta!

Remembrance of Things Past  
Part Forty-Five: Blow Up the Outside World, Part Five

In the Carrier, Steve runs. He can’t fail again. He couldn’t save Coulson and he couldn’t save Fury and he couldn’t save Bucky, but he will save Tony. He must. He owes him.

_I did nothing. I just lay there, and I watched him die._

_Then do something now. Help me._

He rounds the corner to the hangar, skidding on the debris that litters the hall from a ragged hole in the wall. Slowing, Steve eyes the wreckage, trying to determine its cause, but then a grunt of pain from the bay speeds him. Jumping through the hole, he nearly plows into a downed copter, turning aside at the last moment.

As he does, he sees Tony.

He lies in the middle of the bay, his suit in shambles, surrounded by three robots. Bits of the suit lay scattered on the floor; other pieces still cling to Tony, cracked and blackened. One of the bots leans down and rips a chunk off the chest, crushing it and then hurling it back down at Tony; the chunk strikes him in the face, along the cheek, shredding the skin. Another robot stomps down on Tony’s right hand, cracking the repulsor and, Steve thinks, the hand. Tony swipes at the bot, but his movement is sluggish, thwarted by the third robot that grabs his left arm and wrenches it down to the ground. Steve grabs his shield, slung over his back, and races across the bay as the robot lifts its foot, preparing to crush Tony’s shoulder. Rearing back, Steve hurls the shield. It slams into the bot holding Tony’s arm, knocking it back, then rebounds and strikes the first bot in the head before careening into the second, still perched over Tony’s hand. 

As the robots stagger, Steve reclaims the shield and dives into the midst. He rams the shield into the chest of the third bot and swipes at the arm of the second, raised and ready to fire an energy blast at him. The shield slices through the arm. As it falls, Steve twists and blocks the blast from the first bot, directing it at the second. The blast pierces the robot’s chest and it crumples, charred and smoking. From the corners of his eyes, Steve sees the third bot charge. He sidesteps, kicking at the robot, sending it flying into the first. They stumble and fall, their limbs entangled. Raising his shield, Steve pounces, driving the edge of the shield into the first robot and decapitating the blank smooth head. 

The third robot rolls, knocking Steve off balance as it struggles to free itself from the wreckage of the first. Steve somersaults back, regaining his footing. The robot scrambles away, striving for purchase against the metal floor as it reaches for something beyond the wheel of a plane. Lifting his eyes, Steve sees a hand beside a gun, both belonging to a fallen member of S.H.I.E.L.D. 

His blood boils at the sight. 

Easing his weight to his back leg, he waits, his shield in his hand. When the robot clambers to its feet, Steve heaves the shield. The edge impales the bot in the back, severing what would have been, had it been alive, its spine. The robot falls. Steve eases forward as it convulses on the floor, one hand still straining for the gun. Moving past, Steve kneels beside the gun and the hand, his eyes flitting to the face of the fallen soldier. He recognizes the man, one of the medics who had helped Natasha after her torture in Latveria. Leaning forward, Steve closes the man’s eyes. 

Then he claims the gun. 

Standing, he turns toward the robot. It lies on the ground, an arm still lifted for the gun. Its hand sputters and sparks, but no blast issues forth from the repulsor. Raising the gun, Steve sights and fires, three shots into its face. The bullets crunch through the metal and plastic, puncturing the electronics inside. The robot spasms once before stopping, its arm dropping to the floor with a dull thud. 

Steve eyes the surroundings, assessing for further threat. He detects none, the bay quiet save for the rushing of the wind. Striding forward, he retrieves his shield and then continues toward Tony, who has not moved. As he does, the ship jerks to the side. The sudden shift in momentum sends the copters and planes sliding across the bay. The movement freezes Steve. Turning, he inspects the closest plane and finds the chocks gone and brake lines severed. Other parts and pieces litter the ground, evidence of further sabotage. 

Frowning, Steve turns back around. Doom stands in the middle of the hangar beside Tony, his boot on Tony’s neck. He stares at Steve, a gun in his hand. Slowly, Doom lowers the gun until it points at Tony, divested of the entirety of his helmet and faceplate. “Normally,” he says, “I avoid the use of firearms, preferring instead the weaponry in my suit. They do, however, create a far more dramatic picture and thus a far more potent threat. Now, I suggest you don’t move.”

As though responding to his warning, an alarm begins to bray throughout the bay. Steve listens, his eyes on Doom, as Maria calls for an evacuation. Doom tilts his head to the side, a slight shift toward the entrance to the hangar, and the gesture clarifies for Steve the purpose of the sabotage. Destroy the engines, bring down the ship, and ruin the planes and copters to deny any route of escape.

The realization causes him to smile.

His hand tightening on the gun, Doom says, “Do you find defeat so humorous, Captain?”

“Do you?” Steve asks, raising a brow. “You did a real nice job here of dismantling the planes. To prevent the crew from escaping, right?” 

Doom stares at him, silent.

Shrugging at the silence, he continues. “Whoever gave you your information about the Carrier must’ve been working from blueprints for the old model. Because you wouldn’t have spent all this time dismantling the planes if you knew anything about the escape pods. Would you?” The ship lurches again, the planes in the bay shift from side to side, yet still Doom does not respond. His silence elicits a smirk from Steve. “It’s a recent change. Fury ordered it after Loki tried to do just what you’re doing now. No one will be coming for the planes. So it’s just you and me.” 

The silence endures. Though Doom wears a mask, Steve sees fury in the way that he stands, in the increased pressure he places on Tony. “That is unfortunate,” he says, the words clipped and taut. He pauses and his head twists back until it faces Steve directly. Steve tenses, knowing the significance. A second later, Doom raises the gun and points it at him. 

A second after that, the Carrier jerks and slips and then falls.

*

Sword in hand, Sif paces the perimeter of the small room. Her gaze flits from the closed door to the small window to the spilled cup of coffee on the floor to the man at the cluttered black desk, where it lingers. James sits hunched before a computer, his fingers flying over the keys as they have for the past five minutes, yet no progress has been made, the system, as James said four minutes ago and then three and then two, constantly blocking his attempts to gain access. Sif eyes his gun placed before him, the bruise blooming on the side of his head, his metal arm. 

“You’re not one for patience, are you?”

Sif blinks, pulled from her contemplation. She looks at James and finds him peering at her with one brow cocked. “No,” she admits. “So how much more time do you intend to devote to this… machine?”

“Computer. It’s a computer.”

She gives him a look and he grins. “Computer,” she says, restraining her sigh. “How—”

“Wait. Wait, it’s working now.” He returns his attention to the computer, a slight frown creasing his brow. 

As his fingers resume typing, Sif resumes pacing. With each step, she feels strength return to her right leg. The graze on her forehead ceased bleeding before their arrival, yet her hand continues to ache, the wound ugly and raw. Sif cradles her arm to her chest and pivots again. She cycles again through the landmarks, lingering, in the end, on James. She knows he knows she watches, but he makes no comment, keeping his gaze fixed on the screen. Steve had fought so hard for this man, this killer, pushing himself and everyone else to the brink. 

_Do you think someone such as I has friends, Barton?_

_You did. Long ago._

Sif glances down at the sword.

_Is this an apology?_

_Hardly. You know I had cause._

_As did I._

Should she have fought harder when the cracks formed? She tried, defending Loki long after all but Thor had turned from him, the ties of their youth difficult for her to sever. Yet, in the end, she had turned from Loki too. Had—

A sharp draw of breath tears Sif from her thoughts. Turning toward James, she finds him tense and pale before the computer. “What is it?” she asks, striding toward him. “Is it Natasha? Is—” 

Sif stops as she catches sight of the screen. Steve fights in the midst of three robots, Tony Stark prone beside them. She recognizes the hangar, the bay nearby, toward the rear of the ship as the cage and the room in which they stood.

“It’s okay,” James says. “It’s not the real one.”

Sif frowns and is about to ask for clarification when she sees him, floating in the sky at the edge of the screen, slight yet unmistakable.

Doom.

“It’s okay,” James repeats. His voice sounds odd to her ears, strained yet flat.

Steve twists and blocks an energy blast from a robot, directing it toward another. “How do you know?” she asks, watching Doom.

“The decoys were supposed to go for the engines and the planes.”

“And Doom?” she asks, looking at James. “You were supposed to slay Natasha. What had he intended to do?”

James looks at her a moment before shaking his head and turning away. The third robot charges Steve. 

Sif narrows her eyes at the silence. “If you do not know, then how can you claim with certainty that this is not Doom?” She jabs at his image with the tip of her sword. 

“Because I can,” James snaps. He bats her sword away with his metal hand; his right he moves over the computer screen. As it does, the video of Steve vanishes, replaced by a projection of a hall elsewhere in the ship. “Doom is going after Natasha,” he says. “We have to—”

Sif barrels over him, refusing to relent. “Perhaps he already has. Perhaps she is dead and he seeks to slay the others now. We must know for sure.” Turning to the computer, she says, “Computer, show me the previous image.”

James sighs. “This model doesn’t work like—”

The image of Steve reappears, rendering James silent. He gapes at the screen, projecting the tiny image of Steve, standing now beside a broken robot, watching another crawl away. Doom hovers behind a plane, out of sight from Steve.

James stares at the computer, unnerved. “What—”

“Is there anything else you require, Mistress Sif?”

James pushes back from the computer, suspicion in his eyes. “What—”

“Jarvis,” she says, unable to stop the small smirk of pleasure at her advanced understanding of Midgardian electronics. “Yes. The computer created by Tony Stark.” 

James continues to eye the computer, his suspicion giving way to curiosity. Turning back to the screen, Sif says to Jarvis, “Do you know if the Doom with Steve is real?”

“He is not. Mr. Stark referred to him as a ‘Doombot.’ A robot decoy.”

At the revelation, James turns to her and cocks a brow in triumph. Sif rolls her eyes and prepares for another question, but James beats her to the punch. “Is Natalia… Natasha… Is she alive?” 

Jarvis does not respond. Steve crouches, half hidden by a plane. From the corners of her eyes, Sif sees James clench his jaw. His left hand curls into a fist. 

_You’re just trying to figure out a way to kill us all, aren’t you?_

Sif eases her weight onto her left leg. “Jarvis, James is our ally. He seeks only to help Natasha.” She pauses, gazing at his hand. Then she says, “And if he is not, if this is but a ruse, know I shall slay him where he stands.”

Silence follows her pronouncement. Then, soft in the stillness, “Is that right?”

James sits tense in the chair, his metal hand in a fist before him. Sif grips her sword, the blade at the ready. “Yes.”

On the screen, Steve stands, a gun in his hand.

James looks at her, his eyes concealed in shadow. “You think you can?”

Sif holds his stare. “Without a doubt.”

Time stretches and tightens. The seconds slide by. Sif regards James, Winter now, his eyes blank and body hard. Steve fires the gun, three quick shots that snap across the screen. James breathes in and Sif tenses and then the ship reels, wrenching to the side. Sif staggers and so does James, his eyes widening as they rock. As Sif regains her footing, he closes his eyes and turns from her. She peers at him, her hand on her sword, watching as he draws in a long, ragged breath. After a moment, he opens his eyes. They flit to her and then dart away. James tries to summon a smile, but the effort collapses midway through. “So, it seems I’m…”

He trails off, his gaze drawn to the computer. Sif turns and finds Doom now confronting Steve, a gun in his hand. A light flashes high on the wall followed quickly by the blare of an alarm. Over the din, Sif hears a message from Maria, instructions for evacuation. The two on the screen listen to the message as well. A beat passes and then Steve looks at Doom and smiles.

“…crazy,” James finishes. “I seem to be crazy. But I guess I’m not the only one.”

Sif watches as Steve swagger before Doom. “No,” she says, a nascent smile on her face, “you’re not.”

_Keep it distracted._

_Shall we begin?_

Pivoting, she rounds the desk and heads for the door. 

_He is unlike any man that I have met._

She will not let Steve fight alone, brave and bold and standing between his men and Doom. If they are to die, she will die beside him, this man for whom she crossed the stars.

_Thor told you about me? What else did he say?_

_That you were the most honorable man that he knew, one worthy of Mjolnir._

“Sif…”

The disquiet in his voice stops her. She looks back over her shoulder at James, his gaze troubled in the light gleaming pale through the window. She understands his distress, both Natasha and Steve in peril. 

“Jarvis,” she says as the ship lurches again, “does Natasha yet live?”

“Unknown. Continued interference with surveillance in weapons storage prevents further—”

Sif does not hear the rest as the ship tilts and, before she can catch breath, plunges down through the sky. 

*

The clouds part and the sun shines on the deck, on Thor and Doom, on the request for mercy that lay between them. Shifting Mjolnir in his hand, Thor stares at Doom, searching for the gleam of a ploy in his eyes. Yet all he sees is mild curiosity as to his answer. Narrowing his eyes, he says, “Why ask for mercy now and not before you laid siege to this ship?”

Doom shrugs. “Does the timing of the request matter more than the intent? Loki only repented after he strove to conquer the Earth, yet you still forgave him.”

_I sought your death three times, and yet here you are, demanding of me my regard for you._

_Why do you not hate me for what I’ve done?_

Thor takes a step forward, brandishing Mjolnir at Doom. “Do not compare your circumstance to his.”

Doom holds up his hands in conciliation. The sight of the blood staining his skin revolts Thor; he hopes Loki reached Agent Romanoff in time. “Perhaps you are right,” Doom says, the look in his eyes measured and contemplative. “Loki is, after all, the greater criminal. It would be unfair to compare my slight sins to his.”

“Slight?” Thor glances at the blood on his hands. “You murdered—”

“After provocation. The same cannot be said for Loki. We posed no threat to him when he came to this world. Neither had the others.”

Thor frowns at the claim. “Others?”

Doom smiles at his confusion, amused by his ignorance. “Yes, Odinson. Others. Do not tell me you have forgotten about Jotunheim so quickly.”

His breath catches in his chest at the mention of Jotunheim. 

_You can’t kill an entire race._

_Why not? And what is this newfound love for the Frost Giants? You, who could have killed them all with your bare hands._

Thor lowers Mjolnir, his eyes on the weapon, his focus on the past.

_Run along, little princess._

Swallowing hard, he says, “What happened with Jotunheim was an accident—”

“An accident? From the civilization of righteous perfection?” Doom laughs at the thought. “Do you honestly believe this? Please tell me you don’t because I can assure you that Jotunheim does not.”

The claim stuns Thor. He stares at Doom, cold seeping into his gut at the knowledge possessed by this mortal man. “How do you know this?”

Doom shrugs again. “How does one know anything? You ask, and someone answers. I called for information concerning Loki after his escape from Venice.” The smile reappears. “You would be surprised at how many answered. Your brother has crossed many people in his journey through the universe. Tales of his destruction are nearly as legion as yours.”

“Mine?”

“Yes. Tales of you run rampant throughout the galaxy. Tales of your arrogance. Of your war-mongering.”

_In my youth, I courted war._

_When I am king, I’ll hunt the monsters down and slay them all._

Thor looks away, the truth in the claim undeniable. From the corners of his eyes, he sees Doom smile. “Has Loki told you of his time spent in the Void? The tales would be most illuminating, I am sure.”

_I have grown, Odinson, in my exile._

_I’ve seen worlds you’ve never known about._

The ship shakes as though buffeted by the wind, by the occurrences Doom implies. Thor stares at him, again searching for the gleam of a ploy in his eyes. But, as before, he sees no lie, only the cold glare of the truth. 

“Ask him,” Doom says. “If he yet lives. If any of us will.”

In the distance, an alarm sounds. Doom closes his eyes, tensing at the sound. The sunlight shows the blights on his armor, the blood and the burns. It brightens the shadows beneath his eyes, the gaunt lines creasing his nose and mouth. He had fought against Loki and fought against Clint and fought against Fury, falling hundreds of feet, suffering stabs and burns, innumerable blows, the cold of Jotunheim and acid arrows. For Thor, his hollow face recalls Loki in New York, perched on the tower of Tony Stark, realizing the consequence of his ambitions, his desire for slaughter.

_It’s too late._

_It’s too late to stop it._

The ship rocks again. Thor licks his lips and eyes Doom a second longer, and then he says, “You ask for mercy. That I can grant. But only if you cease attacking this vessel and—”

Thor stops, his offer severed by the ship suddenly plummeting through the sky. Expecting to fall, he bears down, gripping Mjolnir with both hands, yet he does not move, his feet fixed to the deck of the ship. Glancing at Doom, Thor finds him similarly stable, save for his cape blowing in the wind. The ship jerks to a stop, as suddenly as it plunged, yet still Thor does not move and neither does Doom. He watches as Doom reaches up and flicks the end of the cape off his shoulder, as he turns and looks at Thor. Some emotion flickers on his face, vanishing before Thor can discern it. Summoning a smile, one twisted and sharp, he says, “On second thought, mercy is for the weak.” Then he turns and strides toward the front of the deck.

Thor tenses to follow, but he can’t, his feet still pinned to the deck. “Release me.”

Doom pauses and looks back. He watches Thor strain against the bond that holds him. Quirking a brow at his efforts, he says, “It is not I that holds you.” His stare lingers, the look in his eyes grim and resolute, then he turns back around and continues on, his ploy for time successful.

*

Pepper warned her. In this life, people die. And she was right. The day after their conversation Darcy saw Fury dead, burned almost beyond recognition by Doom. And now S.H.I.E.L.D., her comrades, her fellow defenders against whatever forces of darkness preyed on the world, fell like proverbial flies around the ship. But they were them. Even Fury, though Darcy had liked him, had been one of them, not Darcy herself or someone vital to her world.

He, and they, were not Jane.

Darcy watches Jane stagger, nearly falling into a still mute Loki as she stumbles. Blood creeps around her side, soaking her shirt, spreading across her stomach and chest like a sinister wave. Jane twists an arm behind her and tries to touch the wound in the middle of her back. Her hand returns, her palm bright with blood. She glances at the hand and then at Darcy, and the fear and confusion in her eyes compels Darcy to move. It compels everyone to move. Loki returns from his coma to catch Jane as she falls. Bruce tenses and pushes away from Natasha. Clint reaches for his bow before turning toward Doom. Doom aims his gun at Clint. Loki shoves Jane toward Darcy, turning as she falls to face Doom. He holds out a hand and rips the gun away. Darcy sees it soar off into the darkness. The lights flicker and boxes shake around them as balls of energy bloom in both of Loki’s hands. Then the air crackles, green light flashes, and a woman appears, tall and regal and proud and strong, and she looks at Doom, she lifts a hand, and Doom begins to fracture before them. First the joints of his armor rend, the metal screeching as it breaks; then the wires inside rip and tear from one another, snaking out into the air like a spider web. The whole tableau holds for one moment, the air charged with electricity, before the ship lurches, before the woman flexes her hand and Doom explodes.

Darcy stares at the woman, her eyes wide. Before she can process even a fraction of the past few minutes, an alarm begins to blare, a shrill note of panic pulsing through the room. The woman tenses and turns toward them as Maria speaks, calling for an evacuation. Jane trembles, panting for breath. Darcy eases her onto the floor and tries to put pressure on her wound as Bruce did for Natasha. The blood thrums hot against her hands. 

“Bruce, man, you have to stay calm.”

Darcy glances up to find Clint kneeling beside Natasha, between her and Bruce, who shakes in a ball on the ground. His body heaves; the skin roils and darkens, becoming green. Darcy feels the blood rush from her face. 

Clint grips an arrow in his hand, a toothpick wielded against a rhinoceros. “The target is gone,” he continues, his voice low and dispassionate. “They need you now, not him.”

Bruce nods. The muscles in his back seize. His hands clench upon the floor. But the change does not stop; the rage still pounds within him, straining to get free. Loki moves toward Bruce, lifting a hand, but the woman restrains him, moving past him to stand behind Clint.

“Please, Agent Barton. Allow me.”

Clint steps aside to give the woman space. She crouches before Bruce, but he takes no notice of her, trapped in himself. Jane gasps and Natasha stiffens and the woman raises a hand and places it on Bruce’s head. As she does so, Bruce seizes up and the ship rocks, but the woman holds on. Crates shift and tumble from the shelves, but Loki casts them aside with a flick of his fingers. A few seconds pass and then Bruce relaxes, his body splaying flat and boneless upon the floor.

Turning, the woman looks at Clint and says, “Bring Jane closer, within reach.” 

Clint nods and eases toward Darcy. They pull Jane within a foot of Natasha and the woman holds her hands above the both of them. She breathes in and closes her eyes. Nothing happens for a moment and then the tips of her fingers begin to glow. Darcy expects the glow to spread, to heal, but before it can, the ship starts to shudder. The woman clenches her jaw and persists in her efforts, the energy inching forward, but the ship tilts and plummets. Reaching out, Darcy grabs hold of Jane and Clint. She feels Clint close his hand over hers. His palm is dry and cool, a far cry from hers, sweaty and shaking.

The ship snaps to a stop, the glow now gone. Darcy watches as the woman turns to Loki. He still stands in the aisle, staring down at the woman, his eyes dark. “Help them,” she says, her arms shaking above Jane and Natasha.

Loki raises a brow. “Why?”

“As I owe her, you owe them. He is only here because of you.”

The comment elicits a glare, but the glare provokes nothing from the woman. She merely persists in her stare, and it is then that the panic paralyzing Darcy allows her to realize that this woman must be his mother, and Thor’s mother too, Jane telling Darcy how she was going to meet her before she left for Asgard. Loki sighs at the continued stare, but he also gives a curt nod. At the nod, the woman closes her eyes. Green energy again envelops her fingers and again the ship starts to shudder, but Loki tenses and the ship stills and the pieces click into place: it is they who control the ship, Loki now and this woman too; the Carrier flies because of their will and their power. Glancing at Clint, Darcy sees the same knowledge in his eyes. He stares at Loki as he stared before, kneeling beside Natasha and asking Loki to do this, to find a way to save her. 

Swallowing hard, Darcy looks at Natasha. The energy twists and arcs over her, cocooning first her and then Jane before flowing back over the woman and out again until all three are encased in the shimmering light. The ship creaks and groans as an old house settling on shaky ground. Loki staggers and braces himself against a shelf. His ragged breaths echo off the walls. Darcy watches as the wound on Natasha’s throat slowly begins to knit, as the hole in Jane’s back heals. The ship jerks to the side only to stop once more as Loki stumbles and falls to his knees. Jane twitches in the glow, and Loki clenches his hands. The wound on Natasha’s neck closes, and the ship shifts again. Crying out, Loki opens a hand and Darcy sees a golden spear, a blue jewel girdled in the center, materialize in his palm. At the sight, Clint stiffens. The jewel brightens. Jane opens her eyes and gasps, and the ship plunges a few dozen feet before Loki clamps his hand over the jewel. The smoky blue light snakes around his wrist and sinks into his skin. Darcy sees the light flare in his eyes and it is then that Clint moves. He darts forward and jerks the spear away from Loki. The light dies in Loki’s eyes and the Carrier tilts, precariously perched. 

Loki looks at Clint, his body trembling, taut as a plucked string. “I need it—”

“I know,” Clint says. “I know.” He stares at the spear, the look on his face the same as in New York when he told Darcy of his past. Fractured. Gaunt. Darcy knows then that he holds the same weapon that Loki used to seize his mind and make him kill. Her throat convulses at the sight. 

“Barton,” Loki says through gritted teeth. “Clint—”

At his name, Clint straightens. He looks at Loki, his jaw set. “No. Not with this. We made our choice. But this isn’t the way to pay it.” 

Natasha convulses; the woman does as well. Loki regards Clint, his face blank, his eyes as dark as before. Then he shakes his head and looks away. Clint frowns and leans forward to continue his appeal, but then a ragged smile appears on Loki’s face. He glances again at Clint, and when he does, Darcy sees tears in his eyes. “And yet you wondered why I chose you.”

Clint jerks back, retreating from Loki and the comment, from the sentiment it implies, his eyes wide. Loki stares at the spear a moment longer and then waves a hand. The weapon vanishes, the Carrier rocking again as the last gleam of gold fades. Loki tenses and his effort checks the fall, but only briefly. The ship wavers again, and Loki hunches over, his back arched, but the Carrier is too much, even for him. Darcy hesitates, her eyes darting to Clint, who sits, frozen, staring at Loki, then she leans forward and lays a hand on Loki’s back. He stiffens beneath her touch but she does not retract her hand. She will not. Tilting his head, Loki eyes first her and then Clint before settling his gaze upon Natasha. He stares at her a long moment and then says, his voice twisted from the strain, “Brace yourselves.”

There is time for a gasp of breath, for Clint to grab Darcy and hold her fast, and then, as the rides she loved as a kid, the tip of a rollercoaster over the top curve, the swoop in her gut at the last clink of the chain, at the pause signaling the fall, the ship pitches to the side and plummets down to the ground.

*

When the ship plunges, Steve moves. So does Doom. 

And so do the planes. 

Doom fires, missing as Steve dodges to the side. He slides on the tilted floor, abandons his gun, no use against Doom’s armor, and then throws his shield at Doom. Running in its wake, Steve catches it as it rebounds and plows into Doom, knocking him back as he aims the gun at Tony. The bay resounds with the howl of wind as the ship falls and the screech of planes sliding across the floor. From the corners of his eyes, Steve sees one close in on Tony, still unconscious on the floor. As he slams the shield against Doom’s hand, dislodging the gun, he says, “Jarvis? Jarvis, can you hear me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you fly the suit without Tony?”

“Yes.”

Doom extends his hand toward Steve. Steve dodges, twisting around Doom to ram his shield into Doom’s back. As Doom stumbles and falls, Steve says, “Do it. Get him out of the bay.”

The turbines in Tony’s suit fire. Jarvis lifts Tony into the air. The sight unsettles Steve, Tony’s head lolled to the side, his arms and legs too stiff and straight. As Jarvis begins to direct Tony toward the entrance to the Carrier, the ship snaps to a stop, rocking Steve. The planes jerk back in the other direction, one toward him and Doom. They scramble apart, one on either side of the plane. Steve hears the whine of a repulsor and races around the other side, Doom closer to Tony. As he rounds the rear of the plane, he sees Tony hovering in the air, easing toward the entrance, blocked in part by the collapsed copter, he sees Doom holding out a hand, his repulsor glowing. Planting his left foot, he rears back and launches his shield again, and his aim is true, the shield flies straight to Doom, but Doom turns and holds out a hand and catches the shield before it can strike. Steve hears the repulsor crack in Doom’s hand from the impact of the shield, but he does not flinch. He merely tilts his head and gazes down at the shield. Steve eyes the ground, seeking a gun, his or Doom’s, yet neither are nearby, blocked by planes or too far for Steve to reach in enough time.

Doom raises his head and looks at Steve. “This is a remarkable weapon, Captain. A pity then that you lost—”

He does not finish for an explosion knocks him flat. Glancing up, Steve sees Tony rotated toward him, one missile flap open. “Thanks, Jarvis.”

“No problem, sir.”

Rushing forward, Steve kicks Doom as he tries to rise. The ship creaks and clicks, settling down. Steve yanks his shield out of Doom’s hand, but as he does, Doom reaches out for him and grabs his leg. Before Steve can jerk away, Doom unleashes a burst of electricity. Steve collapses upon the ground, his leg and body twitching, his heart racing. His shield falls from his hand and rolls a few feet away. Doom raises his other hand, prepping again to fire; Steve tries to move, he tries to grab his shield, but his muscles fail to obey. Yet another rocket fires, driving Doom back. Steve watches as he twists and dodges, turning to destroy the missile. The Carrier jerks to the side, shifting the ships again, only to stop once more. Steve waits for Doom to resume his attack, yet he still faces Tony. He does not raise his hand. He just stares, his head tilted to the side. Steve lurches and strains for his shield; his fingers skid against the metal, unable to grasp. As he tries again, he sees Tony jolt, thrust toward a plane by the turbines in the suit.

“Sir,” Jarvis says, a strain to his voice, “the Doombot is attempting to seize control of the suit.”

The comm in Steve’s ear squawks and then Doom says, aloud in the bay and through the comm, “Yes. As you have been so diligently learning us, we have been learning you.” As if to prove his claim, the covers to the missiles on Tony’s suit open, only to halt a second later, followed by the thrusters firing and Tony’s shooting closer to the plane. He jerks to a stop, yet as he stops, the missile covers open again and one fires toward Steve. 

Steve lurches for his shield, ducking behind it as best he can. It explodes along the shield; the fire singes his legs. As he smacks out the nascent flames, the ship shifts again. Steve tries to rise to his feet, his step slow, however he ducks flat a second later as Doom shoots an energy blast in his direction. Over the rim of the shield, he sees Doom start toward him, yet he stops at a clang that sounds toward the entrance. Steve chances a glance to the side and sees Sif rise from a crouch, having jumped down from the copter blocking the door. She grips a sword in her right hand; her left hand hangs by her side, the back bloodied and raw. Blood covers her face, yet she stands straight and strong, one eyebrow raised as she stares at Doom.

“Ah,” Doom says, “the lovely Sif. It seems you survived my gift…”

He trails off as Sif steps to the side and another shadow rises over the copter. In the light of the bay, the shadow becomes a man, the man a memory, one haunting him for seventy years.

_I thought you were dead._

_I thought you were dead._

_I thought you were dead._

_I thought you were dead._

Bucky jumps from the copter, landing lightly beside Sif. He has a gun in his hand and a fading bruise along the side of his face. As Steve pushes to his feet, Bucky looks at him, and Steve sees him, his friend, he sees life within Bucky once more, the dead mask of the Winter Soldier gone. Relief rushes through him at the sight. Steve takes a step forward, but at that moment, the Carrier tilts again and falls and chaos breaks loose in the bay.

Planes and copters barrel toward the entrance. Steve wobbles, his legs still unsteady. He glances over his shoulder and watches as a copter slides his way, he watches as Doom lifts his arm and shoots at Bucky and Sif. Steve hears footsteps on metal, the approach of Bucky and Sif. In the air, Tony jerks, the panels of the suit opening and closing. Steve moves forward, gaining speed and stability, dodging the plane and heading toward Doom. Then the Carrier jerks to a stop once again and Doom moves, starting toward Steve. He has no arm raised and ready to fire; in the set of his shoulders, Steve knows he means to tackle him, bring him down to the ground. Bucky yells and bullets fly, bouncing off Doom. Steve lifts his shield and prepares to block. From the corners of his eyes, he sees Sif run, he sees her jump, she rebounds off a plane and leaps into the air, toward him and Doom, her sword raised. A high-pitched whine peals nearby, it grows closer, and Steve knows it’s from Doom, prelude to an explosion. Doom raises a hand and directs it toward Sif, and as he does, Steve grabs his shield and slams it into Doom, who staggers, falling back as Sif plows into him, ramming her sword through his head.

Doom flops inert on the ground. As Sif pries her sword free, Steve sees the wires in his head, the mechanics he intended to blow. He draws in a breath and looks at Sif. She turns to him; a smile, slow and bold, bright with the rush of battle and the relief of victory, blooms across her face, and Steve knows that his earlier sin of doubt is forgiven. He opens his mouth to say something when movement to his left draws his attention. Turning, he finds Bucky approaching, hesitation clear in his step. This Steve understands, the two of them, dumb kids from Brooklyn, altered and aged, in the midst of a falling fortress beside a broken robot replica and a goddess from an eternal alien planet.

_Where are we going?_

_The future._

Steve looks at Bucky and he feels the laugh bubble in his chest. Bucky looks off to the side and then cocks a brow, and the gesture is so familiar, and the hint of a smirk accompanying it, that he rushes back seventy years, eighty, nearly ninety, to when they first met, Bucky again saving him from a fight that he was too dumb to walk away from.

Bucky glances back at Steve; tears gleam now in his eyes, sorrow shading the snark, as he says, “‘Don’t do anything stupid.’ Someone needs to take his own—” 

He doesn’t finish for, at that moment, the ship, for the final time, falls.

*

The ship pitched to and fro as a Bilgesnipe yet to be broken, yet throughout the heaving, as pods escaped from the ship, jettisoning into the sky, Doom stood firm, facing the prow, as did Thor, frozen in the middle of the deck. Only Frigga and Loki possessed the power to hold Thor fast, but which one does now he does not know. Frigga would want to ensure his safety as the ship rocked and rolled. Loki would not. Yet Loki desired to save Natasha, and he had turned from Thor to glean the information he needed from Doom to do so. Perhaps he does the same now by adhering Thor to the deck, by preventing him, perhaps, from fighting Doom, from stopping him in his schemes.

_He’s a goddamn supervillain._

_And now he’s about to be best buds with your brother, the last goddamn supervillain who tried to take over the world._

Not a supervillain, not as Agent Barton had proclaimed so long ago, but one who would do what he deemed necessary in order to accomplish his goals.

As now will Thor.

He whirls Mjolnir in his hand, winding the hammer for a kill shot. Sighting Doom, he tenses to let Mjolnir fly, but before he can, the ship jerks and tilts, tipped on edge, before plunging straight down to the ground. Off balance, Thor sways in place. He drops to one knee as the Carrier falls, as the sky streams past and the sun shoots away. Through the streaming clouds, he sees Doom at the edge of the deck, unaffected by the descent. He raises his hands into the air and light flares in the distance, beyond Thor’s line of sight. Pushing against Mjolnir, he rises, straining to see the source of the glow. 

When he does, his heart clenches in his chest.

Before the falling ship a portal widens and beyond the portal, gleaming and golden and bright in the light from a different sun, Asgard.

Thor turns back toward Doom, panic rising within him. He hurls Mjolnir at Doom, but misses, the hammer flying past, out beyond the ship and through the portal. A moment later the prow of the ship follows. Thor strains against the magic affixing him to the deck, but he cannot free himself. He watches, helpless, as the Carrier barrels through the portal, as Asgardian sky engulfs Thor. He breathes in the lush air and calls again for Mjolnir, the Bifrost, the Palace, the statues and the streets growing ever closer. Mjolnir smacks into his palm. To the side, the Bifrost begins to whirl, Heimdall activating the shield protecting the palace. Sighting Doom, Thor lets Mjolnir fly. This time his aim is true. The hammer smashes into Doom, knocking him from the deck. He disappears beneath the plunging ship, but it is too late. 

It is too late to stop it. 

Thor hears screams, he sees his people running, streaming away from the crashing ship. The bottom of the Carrier shears the tops of buildings. Metal screeches and debris flies, smashing into other buildings, colliding with people. Thor stumbles as the magic holding him disappears. He falls to the deck and slides down to the prow. Thrusting out his hands, he tries to stop his momentum, calling as he does for Mjolnir. His eyes wide, he watches as the Carrier rams into houses, the homes no more than paper, than cloud, against the beast from the sky. 

Fifty feet from the ground, Mjolnir finds his hand, and he pushes off from the deck as the ship rams into the city of his birth, the playground of his youth, his home and his world, the realm he was born to protect. All, all give way, all cave beneath the Carrier. Landing in the wreckage of what was once a street of bakers, Thor watches, tears in his eyes, as the momentum from the fall overturns the ship. The burnt and broken deck slams onto the ground, leveling the surrounding homes, smashing those he loves both within and without. The impact slows the ship and it slides to a halt at last, against the protective shield around the palace, the Carrier and the realm in ruins, both shredded, melted, and lost.

*


	48. In My Time of Dying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the fall of the Carrier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violence, blood, physical injuries, and character death in this chapter. Also, background information about Asgard from Thor: The Dark World is used in this chapter.

Remembrance of Things Past  
Part Forty-Six: In My Time of Dying

 

Natasha dies.

And then she wakes up.

Light encompasses her, blinding and white. She squints into the glare, straining to sit only to realize she’s already sitting. A room begins to materialize around her, first the hard plastic chair in which she sits and then a long table. She sees two people, one at either, but nothing else and no one else, just she, the table, and the two people, two men, both gruff, stern, and dead like her.

Fury and Odin.

The surroundings clarify into the conference room in S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters in New York, the room in which she first met Odin. He had appealed to her then to help Loki, to save him from Doom. Looking at Odin now, Natasha realizes that he is about to do the same thing again, the look on his face, the power and the plea, familiar.

_There is good in him, Ms. Romanov._

_He simply needs a guide to help him find his way._

Natasha turns from Odin to Fury. He looks as he ever had, no burns to his skin here, but his expression is no longer stiff and guarded, the mask of the master spy of S.H.I.E.L.D. Instead Natasha sees respect and regret and a clear regard for her in his eyes. She never knew if Fury liked her while they were alive or if he merely tolerated her, knowing her use. Maybe if she had let herself, she could have known, but she kept him at a distance, wary of all with power over her. 

Just another thing to add to her list of regrets.

_I knew how he felt about me. And I used it. To survive._

_He cared for you, and you traded him for information._

Shifting in her seat, Natasha glances around the room and quirks a brow. “So Hell is a conference room?” 

Fury smirks at her question, the denial of emotion so characteristic of them. “We’re not in Hell. Surprisingly, given what we’ve done.”

“So where are we?”

Fury shrugs. “I’m not quite sure myself. I was… somewhere. And then I was here.”

Natasha looks at Odin, tension beginning to stiffen her spine. “Why?”

Fury leans back in his chair. His gaze flickers from her to Odin, and he grins. “Because the God King of Asgard can’t talk worth a damn.”

Natasha eyes Odin as he glares at Fury. If Fury looks the same as he had in life, Odin looks better, stronger than when Natasha saw him last, but of course when Natasha saw him last, he had just given his life to Frigga and then sucked the energy from the Destroyer and the Casket of Ancient Winters out of Loki and into his own body. But even before then, in Asgard as she pleaded with him to give her the Casket, Odin seemed old, worn, and thin. But he exudes power now, again the true God King of Asgard, strong enough to pull Fury and her into this space for whatever end.

Odin glares a moment longer before meeting her gaze. When he does, she asks, “Why am I here?”

“You are here, Ms. Romanov, because Loki refused to hear what I had to say. Yet someone must.”

“Why me? Why not Frigga? Or Thor?”

The rancor fades from his face at her question, replaced by the same mixture of respect and regret and something of a regard for her that she had seen in Fury’s eye. “They are not dying. You I can reach more easily than they.”

She grasps his implication before he finishes. “Is Loki—”

“He is not dead and was not. Those that are not conscious may touch the realm of the dead as well, especially if they are as adept at navigating worlds as Loki.” 

The relief at his revelation does little to lessen the tension she feels. Odin had died for Loki, reaching him with his sacrifice in a way that he never had in life. For Loki to ignore his message meant the presence of lies or manipulation, something that he would reject. And possibly something that she would reject, too. Her eyes dart to Fury again. 

When they do, Fury smiles. “A bit heavy-handed as far as manipulations go. I told him to go for Coulson instead, that you always liked him better, but he said there wasn’t time.”

“Why not?” she asks. “What’s going on?”

Fury looks past her and arches a brow. Natasha turns and looks at Odin as well. The look on his face is grim, and she feels dread at the sight of it. He folds his hands onto the table, hesitates a moment, and then says, “Ms. Romanov, what do you know of a man named Thanos?”

_What will happen now? Now that Thanos knows you’ve failed?_

_Something far worse than Hell._

Natasha straightens, the memory of the Doge’s Palace flashing before her. Odin sees the recognition on her face and continues. “Thanos has been searching for Loki ever since Loki failed to retrieve for him the Tesseract. This I knew in life and acted as I felt best.”

_Odin will not give Loki the Casket._

_Why?_

_He hears whispers of the name Thanos, of his power and his hatred for Loki, and this troubles him._

Odin pauses, remembering, she is sure, the consequences of that decision, her theft of the Casket, the death of Frigga and then his own. Natasha swallows, her eyes on Odin. “I never meant—”

“I seek no apology, Ms. Romanov. Nor should you offer one. I knew who you were and how you thought when I sought you for aid. I knew how you would react to my decision.” He pauses again and the corner of his mouth quirks into a smile. “It is Frigga who surprised me.”

_Odin is king and therefore must consider the people of the Nine Realms in his decisions._

_I, however, need only consider my sons._

Odin allows himself another moment of reflection before continuing. “In life, I knew little. But in death, I know more.”

“Why?”

Fury responds to her question. “You see differently here, Natasha. Sometimes literally.” He lifts his eye patch. Where before had been scars, Natasha now sees a perfect eye, one that gleams as it regards her. Before she can process this twist, the room flickers and light encompasses it once more, this time a glowing green. 

“We haven’t much time,” Odin says. “Frigga calls to you, but you must listen, Ms. Romanov. In his search for Loki, Thanos crossed paths with Doom. Doom sought information with which to defeat Loki. Thanos provided this, though for a cost.”

_The cost of knowledge. I may yet recover from this cost._

_The same, however, cannot be said for you._

“Doom is but a tool. His desire for revenge has been seized by Thanos for his own ends.”

_He offered me release from my desolation, for a price of course._

_The Tesseract._

The room shivers again. Fury disappears, as does the table. Beyond the room, Natasha hears the howl of an alarm; the chair shakes beneath her. Odin leans forward and grabs Natasha’s hand, grounding her with him. “Thanos moves now against Asgard. He senses weakness. I am gone, and Thor is untested as King. I ask again for your aid. Warn Thor. Help Loki. Do not let his rage—”

Yet Odin, too, disappears. The glow intensifies; the alarm increases in pitch. The chair jerks to the side and then vanishes, and Natasha tumbles to the ground, the room and her too swallowed by black.

*

Alive. Alive. Alive.

“Darcy?”

Alive. Alive. Alive.

“Are you all right?”

Is she?

Alive. Alive. Alive.

Maybe.

No.

Darcy feels Clint’s hand on her face, rough and warm. She lies on something hard and cold. Snot drips down her face and her tongue sticks to the roof of her mouth, dry from the scream she couldn’t scream when the ship fell from the sky. 

Alive. Alive.

Clint shakes her, once, gently. “Darcy?”

She opens her mouth and croaks, “Alive…”

Clint laughs then, the sound breathy and light. He cups her cheek, and she hears him breathe, the inhale shaky and the exhale slow, before he moves away. Opening her eyes, Darcy sees shelves poking out of the floor (the ceiling now, the ship overturned) like stalactites in a cave. They throw stark shadows against the walls, the only illumination now from the emergency lights. Sitting, Darcy sees Clint kneeling beside Bruce, his hand on his neck checking for a pulse. Crates lie all around them, some intact, others broken and their contents scattered, having fallen from the shelves as the Carrier fell. 

As it crashed.

From a gazillion feet in the air.

“How…?”

She only gets the word out, but Clint understands the question. He looks back at her, then past her. She follows his gaze and finds Loki facedown on the ceiling ground behind her. He kept the ship up, and when he couldn’t do that, he kept them up, keeping them alive. 

“Is he dead?” Clint asks. 

Swallowing, Darcy crawls over to Loki. She leans down and thinks about checking for a pulse, but she discards the idea because he might not have a pulse or a heart, just magic god batteries or a green ball of energy inside him, and her hands are shaking too much to try to find anything beneath his heavy armor. Instead, she listens for breath and eventually catches the soft passage of air into and out of his lungs over the pounding of her heart. 

“He’s alive,” she says, flopping down beside him. She watches as Clint stands and makes his way toward her. She tries to stand too to meet him, but her legs feel like jello shots, warm and wriggly, and she plops again onto the floor. Clint increases his pace, his brow creased in concern. 

“I’m fine,” she says, waving him off. “Fine. Fine. I’m fine, Clint. I—”

“Darcy.”

Her mouth snaps shut on the last fine. She looks at Clint as he kneels before her, and she feels her eyes gradually widen. Pain flares in her back, and the sensation recalls the robot firing at her and the man who had stood beside her in line for coffee that morning and how he had been shot in the head. Darcy clamps down on her knees to try to still the shaking, but she only shakes harder, prompting Clint forward. He lays his hands on her shoulders. 

At his touch, the dam bursts within her. 

“I thought I was fine. I thought I was. I thought I was.” She shakes her head.

He raises a hand to her face and strokes his thumb against her cheek. “You are. You will be.”

She grabs his hand and squeezes as the wave roils within her. “‘Cowboy up’? ‘Let’s kick some ass’? I can’t even fire a gun, Clint, and— and people died, and they, they—” She waves her free hand, looking for Jane, but she doesn’t see her or Natasha or Frigga. “Where’s Jane?”

“Frigga took them away after we landed.”

Because of the blood. Natasha and her throat and Jane and her gunshot and the man in the line and the woman with the freckles and—

“Darcy.” Clint jars her, drawing her back to the present. She looks at him and blinks away the tears as he says, “Just breathe. In and out, okay? In and out.” 

_Just breathe and drive. Don’t worry about how fast you’re going or what I’m doing._

_Just drive and get us there safely._

Clint breathes in and out, long, slow exchanges of air. Darcy tries to follow, staring at his nose, his ear, his left eye. His focus calms her now as it did in Galisteo when they fled from Doom, as it did before in the lab when Darcy fled the fighting after she couldn’t find Jane. Neither moment fazed him; neither does this one. He is calm and strong, but people had said he’d been broken, broken by Loki, and it seemed that he had; Darcy recalls how lost he looked in the hospital bed in Stark Tower, pale and shaking and overwhelmed by what Loki had done to him and what he had done as a result, but Clint put himself back together, _he_ had done it, they said that she had, but she hadn’t, _he_ had confronted the thing he hated and _he_ had faced the thing he feared, he had made himself, he did it all, all of this, fighting and crashing and dying, and he did it, all of it, just as he was, no special powers, nothing but courage and will, and Darcy understands now what Loki had meant when he looked at Clint and said, And yet you wondered why I chose you, she understands now, Clint so strong that he saved even a god from himself.

_Not with this._

And without thinking, she says, “I love you.”

Clint blinks; his gaze sharpens upon her, like the hawk for which he is named. Darcy shifts at the intensity of his stare; as she does, her hand brushes against Loki’s shoulder. She fights the impulse to close her eyes at the touch or crawl away or kick her own ass for saying this, this private thing, this thing that should be said only after careful consideration and talks with Jane and possibly Natasha too, but not with Loki, never with Loki, not near him or by him or before him, yet she just did and maybe he was unconscious, or is unconscious, but it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, she _knows_ it doesn’t matter, but she did it anyway, why did she do it, why?

Darcy clears her throat and tries to salvage the damage. “Worst timing ever. I know. I’ll probably regret saying it tomorrow. Or ten minutes from now. Or now.” Her eyes flit to Loki, she can’t help herself, and Clint tenses. Darcy releases his hand and moves to stand. When Clint doesn’t stop her, she tries not to interpret the gesture as rejection. “It’s adrenaline. Or almost dying. Or something.” She shakes her head and resists a glance at Clint. “We should go find them, right? Jane and Natasha. Make sure they’re okay. That they’re, you know, alive.” 

Still without looking at Clint, she starts to pick her way past the crates and boxes, moving toward the entrance smashed by the Hulk, fleeing, again, death and doom, but this time of her own making.

*

High above Asgard, Sif watches the realm burn. The path the Carrier took as it fell carved a dark scar across the city, the gleaming golden world that she had forsaken. Her eyes chart the geography of the destruction, and the breath catches in her throat as she recognizes the section upon which the ship fell, the place she’d visited hundreds of times over hundreds of years, first dragging Loki along and then Hogun when he came to Asgard before being dragged by Fandral and, later, Thor. Volstagg had wanted a house close to the bakers, to be near his favorite pastime, he had said, aside from smashing heads of course. Now the Carrier spans the quarter, belching smoke into the sky.

Panic rising within her, Sif releases her grip on Tony, who had flown she, Steve, and James out of the crashing ship. Steve calls for her as she falls, but Sif does not respond, instead twisting through the air and diving down through the sky. She lands on a roof, tumbles and slides down the sooty side of the building, hitting the street at a run.

On the ground, she hears screams and cries of pain. People call out to her as she races by, recognizing her, looking to her for guidance and aid, but she does not stop. She knows the city guard amasses, beginning to follow their protocols for relief and defense. They will help those in need. She, now, needs to know. She needs to know if the man who had trained her lived, the man who had supported her, had welcomed her into his home time and time again, who had pushed her to bring Heimdall along, to save him from the endless solitude of the Bifrost, and who had pushed her to reveal her feelings to Thor, to love and live as he loved and lived.

She needs to know if Volstagg lived.

In the distance the shield of protection encompasses the palace, engaged from the Bifrost by Heimdall. Sif wonders where her brother is now, whether he, too, runs for the Carrier, or if he mans the Bifrost still, searching the stars for further threat.

As if he knows, and of course he knows, he always knows, knows Sif and her heart, Heimdall steps from between two buildings fifty feet before her. She skids to a stop, reaching out to steady herself against his steadfast arms.

“Heimdall, do you know? Does Volstagg—”

He looks at her. In his eyes, she sees her brother, not the guardian. Lifting a hand, he lays it on her shoulder, and the gesture confirms to her that Volstagg is dead. Sif makes to move past him, still needing to see, but Heimdall holds her fast. 

“You desire to help your friend,” he says when she opens her mouth to protest. “As do I. But he is not our priority.”

Sif takes a step back at the callous response. “Heimdall…”

He dips his head low as a section of the guard passes them by. “Few know the Midgardians, Sif. Asgard has fallen under attack. Who will the people look upon to blame, as foe to fight to defend their city?”

Realization strikes her, cold and heavy. “Steve…” She had left him, James, and Tony, still unconscious in his suit, floating above the city. Of course, they would land. Perhaps they would follow; Steve would want to, wishing to help her and her city. How would people react to him? To James and his metal arm? To Tony and his strange suit?

Heimdall squeezes her shoulder. “They are not lost. _He_ is not lost. Not yet.” 

_He is gone. But he is not lost._

“Run.”

He releases her then. With a last look, Sif turns and races back in the direction she had come. Steve would not strike first. He would try to reason with the guard, her people. But would James? She thinks for a moment as she runs. He would do as Steve did, at first, until a guardsman raised his spear too high or until one pushed Steve, trying to bind him for questioning. 

Then all Hel would break loose.

Sif takes two steps and jumps, grabbing the edge of a roof and hoisting herself up. There, she surveys the land, searching for commotion, for where Steve and James may have landed. She hears a clash, a clang of metal upon metal, before her, four or five streets down, near to where she fell. Charging hard, Sif leaps across the divide between buildings, landing, rolling, rising, and running again, leaping across the next street too, and it is then she hears the sounds of fighting, of the Iron suit firing, of grunts of pain and cries of alarm, the subjects nearby withdrawing to their homes. Her heart clenches at the sounds. She knows the prowess of Steve and the capability of Tony, she has heard the stories about James and his skills, yet all were against mortals, none against gods.

As she jumps across the third street, Sif hears Steve scream. Something smashes into a building; Sif sees the roof tremble from the impact. Fighting resumes as she charges across the roof and then a gun opens fire, from James, she knows, the only one with a gun. Sif hurdles the last divide, trying not to think, she must not think, there is still time, there is still time. She takes two steps and then soars into the air, flipping and diving down to the avenue below. As she falls, she sees soldiers in a clump around two figures and another group surrounding a third.

Sif lands on her feet between the two groups. The street shudders from the impact and some of the guard already cease fighting, recognizing her and awaiting their orders. Rising from her crouch, she yells out, “Cease your fighting by order of the queen!” 

The Aesir brigade snaps to attention, all save one, Vali, who still fights with the lone figure to her left. Sif pushes past the standing soldiers, steps over three more bleeding in the street. She sees a flash of metal, James, his arm lifted to punch Vali. Grabbing his arm, Sif pulls him back; he twists and reaches for her throat, his eyes dark and empty. She bats his hand away, yanking, as she does, on his metal arm, pirouetting them both to shove him back against the wall of the nearest building. She holds him fast, her hand on his chest. 

Movement from the corner of her eye catches her attention. “Vali, I ordered you to lay down arms. Do you defy me?”

Vali looks from her to James, who struggles against her hold. His metal hand clamps down on her arm and starts to squeeze. The grip hurts. Sif fears if he continues he’ll fracture a bone, but she does not relent, either her hold on him or her glare at Vali. 

After another moment, Vali straightens and lowers his spear. “No, Lady Sif. I merely sought to defend the realm.”

Sif feels a jolt of electricity from James. Gritting her teeth, she says, “Then protect the Midgardians you see and slay the machines.”

Vali blinks at her order. “Machines, Lady Sif?”

“Like this,” she yells, turning back to James and wrenching his metal arm off her with her free hand. “But white. White and without faces. These you slay. Do you comprehend?”

Vali peers at the arm. “Yes, Lady Sif.”

“Then go. Inform the others.” She watches, her hand still on James, as the brigade leaves; six remain, four on the ground where James had fought and two others in the middle. Unconscious, she hopes, and not dead. Turning to James, she meets his eyes. He has ceased his struggle, but he glares at her, his eyes still dark, yet no longer empty, instead full of rage. “Who are you?” she asks.

He does not respond. His metal arm shifts. Sif does, too, waiting for him to try to strike her before she takes him down. Then his eyes dart past her and fixes on something, likely Steve. Some of the tension fades from his body and he draws in a deep breath. “James,” he says, looking back at her. “I’m James Barnes. Bucky.”

“That remains to be seen.” 

She eyes him a moment longer before releasing him, before stepping back to confront what she has not wanted to confront since her arrival. Yet the sight before her as she turns is not yet her doom. Steve kneels over Tony, who lies on the ground, his left leg twisted at a strange angle, his left crushed beneath the elbow. Relief floods through her at the sight of Steve, fixing her fast. She swallows hard, her throat constricting as she watches Steve move. She feels James watching her, and others too, doors and windows opening now that the fighting has ceased. Turning to the nearest window, away from James and Steve, Sif spies a small boy. “Do you know how to find the house of healers?” she asks him.

He nods, his eyes wide and locked on James.

“Go. Return with one here.”

_He is gone. But he is not lost._

“There may yet be life to save.”

*

The cries of his people pierce his ears, yet Thor continues on, striding into the grassy plains beyond the city. He recalls the tale that Loki told of his fight in Switzerland against Doom, how the man fell hundreds of feet yet still lived. He must find Doom before he can help the realm; he must see with his own eyes that the threat is gone and that Asgard is safe once more. 

Labored breathing up ahead captures his attention; the grass nearby rustles. Thor eases forward, Mjolnir in his hand. Parting the grass, he steps into a small circle smashed flat by Doom as he fell. He lies on his back and blood oozes from his mouth and nose as he tries to breathe. Doom freezes when he sees Thor, but only for a moment. Then he closes his eyes and tries to laugh. The sound is wet and ragged.

“Have you come to kill me, Odinson?”

Thor stops a few feet from Doom. He watches as Doom cracks open one eye to regard him. “Do you desire death?” he asks, his voice quiet.

Doom ponders the question a moment before replying. “It comes for us all.” His expression is grim beneath the blood. “I am no exception.”

“True,” Thor acknowledges as he closes the distance between them, the man clearly not a threat, at least not to him. He kneels down. Hesitating only a moment, he places Mjolnir beside Doom’s head. Then he says, “Death does come for us all. But how it comes this you can decide.” 

Doom looks at him. Thor sees no fear in his eyes, but no defiance either. Only resignation and a touch of curiosity as to what he will do. 

In response to the silent query, Thor says, “I will grant you a quick death if you answer my question.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I will take you back to Asgard and leave your fate to Loki.” 

Doom looks away then, and Thor wonders if this signifies fear. He watches as Doom shifts on the ground, perhaps in an attempt to crawl away, but he collapses back onto the grass, releasing a fresh flow of blood from his mouth. Thor thinks he should feel pity for the man, but the stench of death blows fast from Asgard and instead his hand tightens on Mjolnir.

“By now, Natasha has died or has been saved. In either case, Loki will desire retribution. What do you imagine he will do to you in order to exact it?” 

Doom meets his eyes. “I don’t need to imagine. I know.”

At that, Thor raises a brow. “Yes. Your claimed knowledge of his time in the Void.”

Doom studies him a moment, his eyes narrowed. Thor tries not to see Loki in the gaze, in the keen curiosity and the search for advantage, but he does. “Is this what you seek, Odinson? To know what Loki did?” He pauses then and smiles, the move ghoulish and bloody. “You don’t trust your brother to tell you the truth?”

“I don’t. Nor do I trust you to tell such tales. But I do not need to know what he did. I only need to know the name of the one who gave you this information about him.”

The revelation quiets Doom. His eyes flit to the hammer and then to Thor and then beyond Thor to the sky above, tinted now with dark and stars. He swallows and his tongue darts out to lick his lips, leaving a bloody smear. “Why?”

“My reason does not matter.” Thor lifts Mjolnir and brandishes the weapon before Doom. “My mercy does.”

Doom hesitates. He closes his eyes and sucks in another wet breath. Thor waits and, after another moment, Doom relinquishes the name. 

“Farbauti. The Queen of Jotunheim.” He opens his eyes and looks at Thor. “She is my source.” He pauses and the bloody grin returns. “I can’t imagine why.”

_You can’t kill an entire race._

_Why not?_

Thor’s eyes widen. The gasp of shock catches in his chest.

_I’m not your brother. I never was._

_He did tell you my true parentage, did he not?_

Farbauti, wife of Laufey.

Loki’s mother. 

Thor swallows down his shock. He feels Doom watch him, his gaze intent upon his reaction. The intensity dulls the shock and heightens in its stead his suspicion.

_On second thought, mercy is for the weak._

_Are you ever not going to fall for that?_

Doom lifts his chin and stares at Thor, defiance now in his gaze. “Well, Odinson. I fulfilled my end of the bargain. It is time for you to fulfill yours.”

Thor looks at Doom. He wonders whether he manipulates with the truth or with a lie. Loki usually selects truth, the darkest bit with which to cut. He does not have enough experience yet to discern the truth with Doom. 

In his silence, Doom cocks a brow. The move causes Thor to smile, not the smile of mercy or of a genial king, but one from the son of Odin and the brother of Loki. “Did you not know?” he asks, reaching for Doom. He spins Mjolnir in his hand, preparing to lift off for the palace and the dungeons. “This is Asgard. The realm eternal. Death makes no home here. It will not come for you today.” 

*

Maria kicks at the door to the escape pod, jammed in the crash landing from the Carrier. On the fifth kick, the door gives, and she crawls out into a new world.

The rocks beneath her hand resemble Earth rocks, but the sky above is like nothing she has ever seen, the stars and galaxies no longer cool and distant, but so close that Maria feels like she can touch them if she lifted her hand. She saw the portal open as she ran for the escape pod; she saw the gleam of golden towers and spires beyond. She surmises then that she’s on Asgard, given the threats made by Doom, but she sees no golden spires here, no structures of any kind, just rocks and sky and her.

Standing by the pod, she breathes in the air, purer here than on Earth, particularly in New York. Though she had an interest in seeing the realm, this isn’t how she wanted to arrive, running from her ship as it fell from the sky. Fury, at least, had kept the bird up, but Maria couldn’t even do that, not even with four gods on board. Perhaps the Council had been right to doubt her ability to lead. Maybe Steve would have been a better choice after all.

Maria closes her eyes and swallows down the doubt. The team had stood by her. They wouldn’t have done that if they didn’t feel her capable. Especially Natasha. Given all the heat Maria had given her about Loki and Winter, Natasha wouldn’t have hesitated to voice her own doubts about Maria. Yet she hadn’t. Natasha had believed in her. The least Maria can do is the same. They had lost, they had fallen, but they would regroup and do what they do best.

They would avenge.

Lifting her hand to her ear, Maria tries the comm, but she hears only static. She considers returning to the pod for parts to boost the signal when movement to her right catches her attention. She twists, reaching for her gun, as a man walks around the escape pod, an alien, as big as the Hulk, but the skin she glimpses around the armor is not green, but purple, punctuated by two eyes of a bright, blinding blue.

The being moves toward her and Maria fires her gun, but the bullets make no more of an impression on him had they been feathers. She turns to run, but his hand lashes out and grabs her by the neck.

“The first sacrifice,” he says. His voice is an earthquake rumble, as dark as the barrel of her gun. Then he tenses and the world for Maria goes—

*


	49. Talk That Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The scar cuts a thin pink line across Natasha’s throat, the only remnant of her fight against Doom. It was a stark contrast to the last time Clint had sat beside her bed, waiting for her to wake after they had rescued her from Latveria. Then she had been bloodied and beaten and tied to a dozen different machines to help her heal. Now she lies in a small golden bed in a small golden room in a huge golden palace on a broken golden world with nothing but the scar on her throat to show how she almost died. And then, of course, he had been alone in his vigil.
> 
> Now he isn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: More information from Thor: The Dark World about Asgardian customs is used in this chapter. Also, some adult language as well as angst and sexual content ahead.

Remembrance of Things Past  
Part Forty-Seven: Talk That Talk

The scar cuts a thin pink line across Natasha’s throat, the only remnant of her fight against Doom. It was a stark contrast to the last time Clint had sat beside her bed, waiting for her to wake after they had rescued her from Latveria. Then she had been bloodied and beaten and tied to a dozen different machines to help her heal. Now she lies in a small golden bed in a small golden room in a huge golden palace on a broken golden world with nothing but the scar on her throat to show how she almost died.

And then, of course, he had been alone in his vigil.

Now he isn’t.

Clint shifts in his chair and glances at Loki. In the two days since the Carrier crashed, every time Clint paused from searching the ship for the living and the dead, every time he had come here to check on Natasha, to remind himself why he had let the ship crash and all those people to die, Loki had been here, his healing wounds the only marker of the passage of time, Loki always in the same chair, in the same position, with the same look on his face.

Fear.

The look, more than anything the past few days, unnerves Clint. He knows it’s not because of Natasha dying. She’ll live, Loki knows that she’ll live, so he can’t fear her dying, at least not now. But maybe it’s because she will live that he’s afraid. Natasha won’t like the cost for saving her; Clint’s already bracing for the anger that he knows she’ll direct his way. But he doubts that Loki will care. 

_This is what I do. This is who I am._

_It must be done and no one else can, or will, do so._

No, Loki won’t fear her anger. He did what he thought was right, and he has Clint and his request for aid to justify him. So it’s something else. Clint settles further into his chair and runs through the past few days. Doom was still alive, locked away somewhere in the palace, but Clint doubts that Loki fears him escaping; if Asgard had restraints strong enough to contain Loki after New York, Doom would be secure and Natasha would be safe. Hell, if Doom did find a way to break out, Clint figures Natasha would kill him before he got two steps from whatever dank cell he currently resided in. So not Doom. 

Maybe Frigga? Clint doesn’t know what occurred between she and Loki before Loki brought her to the storage unit, but he’s seen glimpses of their interaction the past few days and he knows that something went down, Frigga too stiff and Loki too surly for nothing to have happened. But surliness negates fear. You only risk such sullenness with those you trust, not those you fear, so the fear is not due to Frigga.

Clint looks at Loki again. A hazy memory bursts through as he stares from his time underground with Loki. Something had made Loki afraid then, whatever had driven him, beyond his own ambitions, to acquire the Tesseract. Whatever lay on the other side of the portal. Clint remembers how Loki had looked when he burst through the portal, his skin soaked with sweat, hollowed out and shadowed and just plain wrong.

_Freedom is life’s great lie._

_Once you accept that, in your heart, you will know peace._

Loki had failed in his mission. On Earth, perhaps, he had been safe, the Tesseract in Asgard, the portal for his allies presumably powerless. But did he expect retribution now that he was on Asgard? Clint frowns at the possibility. The Chitauri were formidable, but in large numbers only and even then killable, especially by a planet full of gods. 

So something else then. Something worse.

“Are we safe?” Clint asks, the question sharper than he intended.

Loki jerks, torn from his contemplations. His eyes dart to Clint, and the surprise in them confirm for Clint his fear. 

Shit. 

“Why do you ask?” Loki asks, looking away.

He was already cagey too. Shit. _Shit_. Clint twists in the chair and leans over the armrest, gaining a superior line of sight on Loki. “You’re sweating fear. Literally. So something’s wrong.” 

Loki tenses. He looks at Natasha a long moment before drawing in a deep breath. 

“Don’t,” Clint says, waving a hand. “Don’t even try to lie. You’re afraid. I can see it.”

Loki glares at him. Clint prepares for the offensive, for the passive aggressive dismissal. He doesn’t have to wait long. 

“You see only yourself,” Loki says, his body a coiled spring in the chair.

Clint raises a brow. “Is that so?”

Loki nods. “Truthfully, Barton, have you even seen the girl since we crashed?”

_I love you._

_Worst timing ever. I know._

Clint looks away, his jaw tight. So Loki had been awake, he had heard Darcy. Clint thought that he had, and the thought had frozen him and Darcy too when it had come to her. Breathing in, he forces himself to look at Loki again, to unclench his jaw, to remain calm. “Stop deflecting and answer my question.”

Loki smirks. “Why? You haven’t answered mine.”

The urge to dive over the bed and punch Loki in the face rises within Clint at the sight of that fucking smirk; he grips the chair and tries his best to restrain it. Natasha would answer the question. She’d carve off a piece of her soul and lay it bare before Loki to get the information she wanted. Clint looks at her now and tries to do the same. “No, I haven’t seen Darcy. I’ve been a bit busy, you see, trying to deal with the mess we made. Unlike you.” 

Loki shrugs. “Why should I? I care not for S.H.I.E.L.D. or Asgard.”

“But you do for Natasha. So I ask again, are we safe?”

“We, Barton? And who is we?” Loki shifts in his seat, mimicking Clint’s posture. He pitches his voice low, a silken murmur of sharpened steel. “Is it Natasha and I? You and I? Or might it be you and Natasha?”

_Why him? Why not me?_

Clint glares at Loki, yet the glare elicits only another smile. “Tell me, Barton, how must young Darcy feel revealing her heart to you only to have you run and to run to Natasha?” 

_This is why I stay by the door._

_I’m not going to be your distraction._

Clint swallows down the rage clogging his throat. He forces himself to look at Loki, to see the cause for the words and not simply their effects. “I know what you’re doing,” he says through gritted teeth. “But pissing me off isn’t going to stop me from asking.”

“No? A—”

“You said yourself,” Clint barrels on, raising his voice though he knows he shouldn’t, not here, “that you work better with me… with me on your side, so stop being a prick and tell me what the fuck is going on.”

Remarkably, Loki shuts up, his mouth closing with a snap. He sinks down into his chair, his eyes once more on Natasha. The brittle mask is gone, the live nerve exposed beneath. Clint waits, skilled enough in interrogation to know the power of silence. Loki works his jaw, contemplating, and then he meets Clint’s eyes. He draws in a breath and Clint feels explanation imminent, but then the door opens and a healer walks in and Loki pushes up abruptly from the chair.

Clint follows as he heads for the door. They enter a long hall, glimmering and hushed, each room housing the wounded and dying. “No,” Clint hisses, close on Loki’s heels. “You’re not going to walk away. You can’t. You know that she’ll wake up, and when she does, she’ll take one look at you and she’ll know just like I did. And what are you going to do then? Are you going to lie to her too, or will you run, just like you’re running now?”

Loki stops, halfway down the hall. He breathes hard, his head tilted to the side to peer over his shoulder at Clint. Clint stops a few feet away and waits again, thinking his words have hit their mark, but instead the air cracks, green light flashes, and Loki teleports away.

*

The boats stretch from one end of the harbor to the other, hundreds in a row, for both the Aesir and Midgardian dead. Thor knows his decision to proffer boats for the fallen members of S.H.I.E.L.D. stirred controversy in the realm, many in Asgard viewing those from Midgard as inferior and thus unworthy of so sacred a custom. Others simply blamed S.H.I.E.L.D. for the destruction of their city. But Thor will not disrespect his friends from Earth by denying their comrades a burial. And he will not allow his world to do so either. 

_Should I have spoken false about our prior contentions with the Frost Giants?_

_No, but you’re the king, aren’t you? You couldn’t have changed the view after that?_

He glances into the boats as he passes by. A few already contain items for the dead. Others remain empty, yet none will he allow to pass from this world without some token, whether gathered from the palace or the fallen Carrier. All who died deserve tribute for their sacrifice, be they soldier or seamstress, baker or king. 

Swallowing at the thought, Thor peers down at the helmet in his hands. So imposing in his youth, inspiring both him and Loki in their designs for their own armor; it’s polished now to a high shine, yet the gleam cannot hide the scrapes and scars from many a battle. Odin had endured for thousands of years, and Asgard had endured along with him, yet within days of Thor ascending to the throne, two hundred of his people had died and his city had burned and crumbled.

_Asgard is under your protection now. Yet I do not fear for its future._

_I know the realm will be safe._

Was that a fool’s dream or a genuine sign of faith? Thor swallows again and tries to clamp down on the doubt brewing within him. Doubt ability accomplished nothing. He must lead. He must guide the realm; he must heal the realm. There was no one else. 

Ahead, Thor spies his father’s boat; Heimdall stands beside, waiting for him, staring down at the armor that lies inside. Thor had placed Gungnir in the palace vault. Odin had intended for the spear to pass to Loki when he died, at least before he had, before Loki fell and laid siege to the Earth. Thor with Mjolnir, Loki with Gungnir, ruling Asgard with might and magic, with heart and mind. It was a pleasing image, one Thor, too, had cherished. But he lacks the hope now to believe in its fruition.

_It is not I that holds you._

“How is the Queen?” Heimdall asks as Thor stops before the boat.

“Sustaining. She grieves for Father and for Asgard.” He pauses, shifting the helmet from hand to hand. The idea that had occupied his thoughts much the past two days takes possession again, yet he hesitates to voice the idea, to give it reality.

Heimdall, though, notices the hesitation. “You feel there is something else occupying her thoughts?”

“Yes.” He pauses and looks at Heimdall. Then he plows ahead. “Has she spoken to you of her concerns?”

The question catches Heimdall off guard. “The Queen does not hold me in such confidence.”

“She does, as do I.” Thor feels the helmet heavy in his hands. He glances at it and his throat tightens, the tide of grief washing in once more. “As did my father.”

Heimdall follows his gaze. “You are not responsible for his death.”

“I know.”

“Nor for what occurred here.”

Thor looks up. His hands tighten on the helmet. “I am—”

“King. Yes. You are. But this does not mean that every attack on the realm derives from you and your failure. A King cannot protect against all foes.”

“My father—”

“Your father did not see the truth of this scheme either. Nor did I, and I am the guardian of the realm. If fault should lay with anyone here, it should lay with me.”

Thor shakes his head. “Were it not for you, more from S.H.I.E.L.D. would have perished and by our own hand. The realm owes you much, Heimdall.” He peers down at the helmet in his hands, at the boat before him, at those stretched from end to end beside the harbor. So many dead, and Thor powerless to stop it. Swallowing hard, he says, “Perhaps you should be King.”

“ _No._ ”

The ferocity of the refusal stuns Thor. He looks up at Heimdall. As he does, Heimdall moves closer. His expression is as fierce as the dissent in his voice. “Doubt yourself, if you will. But do not doubt your father. He spoke truth to you before he died. The realm is safe in your hands. This does not mean that Asgard will never suffer war or death. Both will occur, and have occurred, but neither will blight our world, not for long, not with you as our King.” He pauses, and in the pause, the stoicism of the Guardian flickers and Thor sees instead the man he had idolized as a boy, the older brother of Sif, the one who had helped train him and Sif and Loki in their youth, who had let them shadow him in the Bifrost and make as though they aided him in his watch. Heimdall regards him another moment and then he says, his voice a soft murmur above the lap of the harbor, “I have watched you grow from a brash boy to a prideful youth to the man you are today, one who has cast aside arrogance for compassion and ferocity for reflection. There is no one better suited to lead Asgard. Odin felt this, the same as I. So doubt yourself if you must, but I am proud to call you my King.”

The show of faith overwhelms Thor. His hands clench around the helmet and he looks away, the hot prick of tears in his eyes. “Thank you.”

Heimdall places a hand on his arm. “Do not thank me. Just attempt to believe, if not for me, then for your comrades. They believe in you. Sif believes in you. She may have forsaken Asgard, but she has not forsaken you. And neither has the Queen.”

_I do not doubt you._

_You are not Asgard._

The memory surfaces, he and Loki and Sif in the tavern on Earth, the revelation from Loki then so long sought and yet so fleeting. 

_You are a fool if you believe that Asgard will ever change._

_You don’t trust your brother to tell you the truth?_

_It is not I that holds you._

Frustration rears inside Thor and dissolves the gratitude at Heimdall and his faith. Leaning down, he places the helmet atop Odin’s armor. “Not all share your faith.”

“No,” Heimdall concedes as they turn from the boat. “Yet is—”

“What news from Jotunheim?”

Heimdall quiets at the question. Thor feels his gaze upon him, heavy with concern, yet he does not accede, having no wish to converse about Loki. “Have you searched the world?”

Heimdall looks away, his jaw tight. The man vanishes and the Guardian returns, stiff and formal. “Yes. All is quiet. Yet the world has not completed its revolution. There are parts I have yet to see.”

They pass from the harbor to the path leading to the palace. Doom had claimed that Jotunheim had not forgotten the assault from the Bifrost, yet would the Frost Giants dare attack the realm, even with Odin gone? Their strength had waned over the centuries, their world a shadow of what legend once claimed it to be. Their offenses leaned more toward deception and stealth now, the attempted theft of the Casket, the attempted assassination of Odin, though Thor knows that those had been influenced by Loki. Perhaps they had learned from him and used another to attain their desires, lying low while Doom wrought their destruction instead. Or perhaps Jotunheim plotted nothing, perhaps Doom had lied, perhaps he had placed that world before a raging, vengeful Asgard for distraction or ruin or some other reason. Thor needed to know. He could not wait, not with Asgard in disarray, yet Jotunheim revolved too slowly, especially if war lay in its shadow.

He contemplates the matter, watching his people rush by, some with baskets and bags in their hands, others with bowed heads. “I should go,” Thor says after another moment. At Heimdall’s look, he clarifies. “To Jotunheim.”

“My King—”

Thor stops and turns to Heimdall, who halts beside him. “Either Doom spoke truly or he lied. If he lied, then someone else informed him about Loki and Farbauti and for some purpose. Likely wicked. If this is so, Jotunheim must be informed for they may be targeted as well.”

“And if he spoke truly? If the Frost Giants move in war against us?”

“If he spoke truly, we must act, but I will not bring war to the realm if I can stop it.” He pauses and draws in a breath, giving voice finally to his thoughts. “Yet I cannot stop it from here.”

_I believe we should open the borders of Asgard more. Perhaps if we had…_

_Tales of you run rampant throughout the galaxy. Tales of your arrogance. Your war-mongering._

_No, but you’re the king, aren’t you? You couldn’t have changed the view after that?_

Heimdall stares at Thor. For a moment, Thor thinks he’s going to oppose the plan, but instead he glances off to the side and narrows his eyes.

“Heimdall?”

“I understand your concern,” Heimdall says, looking back at him, his face once more composed. “But question Doom again. Try at least to confirm the truth or the lie before you go.”

“How?” Thor asks. “If he lied to me with the threat of death before him, he will again. Physical intimidation will glean nothing.”

“And it was not physical intimidation that undid Loki when he strove to conquer Midgard.”

Thor stares at Heimdall, his brows drawn together, and then clarity dawns.

_And that is what you do best, isn’t it? Hostile interrogation?_

_Isn’t that why Fury allowed you to stay?_

Thor shakes his head. “No. I cannot ask Natasha. She is not—”

“—the only one.”

Another moment and then another burst of clarity.

_Aren’t you supposed to be the best?_

_I am. But who do you think taught me?_

“The Winter Soldier?” Thor asks, raising a brow.

Heimdall nods. “Sif revealed that he is once more himself. Or that he is striving to be. You requesting his aid may benefit him as much as Asgard.”

Thor ponders the possibility. The Captain had mentioned much of the same in their discussions the past few days, yet his relief at the return of his friend had been tempered by anxiety at his absence since the crash. In that time, he had seen as little of the Winter Soldier as Thor had seen of Loki. Thor understood why Loki avoided him, too many ghosts made prominent by their return to Asgard, yet the reason for such an action from the Winter Soldier eluded Thor. And worried him too. Yet Heimdall would not propose a plan that would harm Asgard, and Sif would not vouch for James Barnes if she did not deem him worthy.

Thor turns and resumes their walk back to the palace. “I will consult with the Captain. And then I shall ask him. But if he declines—”

“He will not.”

Thor glances at Heimdall. “You are certain?”

Once more Heimdall looks away, this time in the direction of the Bifrost. He is quiet a moment, as though he listened to something that Thor could not hear, and then he says, his voice again soft, “I have faith.”

 

*

James wanders, lost in Asgard. The fact that he stands on an alien planet and that that fact isn’t the strangest part of his life right now is undoubtedly the strangest part of his incredibly long and incredibly strange life. His past bubbles within him as he walks, the soldier and the Soldier and the orphan and the lover and death and death and death and death, but he tries to focus on the buildings and the streets instead. 

He tries to keep down the scream that strives to burst forth and consume him. 

_There is no peace for men such as us._

Stopping, James leans against a column and closes his eyes. His metal arm clinks against the gold, and James flinches, moving it, holding it away from his body. He remembers being the Soldier, he remembers accepting the arm, the appendage nothing more than a tool for him to use, and it is, he knows that it is, but he can’t look at it or touch it or become aware of its existence without wanting to puke. The arm killed people. He killed people. Not Nazis. Not soldiers. People. And not to protect others. For money. For power. For revenge.

_So you’re just a pawn?_

_They say kill, and you do?_

He did. He had. For nearly seventy years he had been in Soviet custody. How many missions had they sent him on? How many people has he killed?

_—a mindless machine—_

_—a mindless beast—_

“Are you ill?”

James opens his eyes, a gasp in his throat. The young boy from a few days before stands a couple feet away, his gaze bright and locked on James. James swallows down the gasp and tries to process the question. After a moment, he shakes his head. He expects the kid to leave then, his curiosity sated, but the kid stays where he stands, his eyes still on James.

James shifts against the column. He can’t remember the last time that he talked to a kid. Or a person. With Natasha, they had rarely talked, nothing much to say, their lives what they were. He took comfort in her presence and he thought she did in his. 

_You love her._

_You love her._

A flaw.

“Are you certain?” the kid asks, inching closer.

“Yes,” James says, the word harsher than he intended. He licks his lips and breathes in, striving for casual, for normal. “Do you, uh, do you need something? Are you lost?”

The kid shakes his head. Then his eyes drop down to the metal arm, and James understands. “Do all Midgardians look as you?”

Of course, only for a moment. “What?”

_In Midgardian tongues—_

The kid takes a few steps closer. “Those from your realm. Do they also possess limbs of such material, like you and the red man?”

James eases away from the column and away from the kid. “I, uh… The red man?”

He has a red star on his arm from a Red Room. Red for blood. Red for Russia. Blood and Russia and Natalia and Steve and the Good Old US of A, White, and Blue.

_Let’s hear it for Captain America!_

“He means Tony.”

James opens his eyes, unaware that he had closed them. Steve stands a few feet away, a crease in his brow as he stares at James. They hadn’t seen each other much the past two days, Steve focused on the fallen ship, having to with Hill gone. James understands, he’d even welcomed it, what could he say to Steve, what can he say, he can’t be Bucky, but maybe he is, he doesn’t know. The crease deepens as James stays silent. He wipes a hand across his mouth and tries to smile, he tries to swallow and breathe in and be normal, but normal exists beyond his capacity now.

_You’re just trying to figure out a way to kill us all, aren’t you?_

Steve turns to the kid and kneels down before him. “What’s your name?”

“Nali.”

Steve repeats the name, once to himself, a trick to remember for later. Then he smiles and says, “It’s nice to meet you, Nali. I’m Steve. This is James. And the red man is Tony. And to answer your question, some people on Midgard have arms and legs like James. But Tony’s different. He was wearing a suit, like armor.”

Nali nods, his small face serious and thoughtful. “Yet I saw him fly.”

“You did. It’s a special suit.”

“Special. Like Mjolnir?”

James watches a smile break out across Steve’s face. “Not quite like that.” 

The kid opens his mouth to ask another question, but Steve stands then and says, “I’m sorry, Nali, but we have to go. We’re supposed to talk to Heimdall right now.”

At the mention of Heimdall, the kid’s eyes widen. He looks past James and takes a step toward him before moving back, nearly vibrating with excitement. James turns to see the cause, and his mouth falls open at the sight of the long colored bridge pulsing with color (was it glass? was it real? was it alive?), the golden dome (a telescope? an observatory?). The stars beyond gleam, bright and immense even in the light of day.

“Holy shit.”

James hears Steve chuckle, presumably at him. Then he says to the kid, “Not this time. But I’ll ask Heimdall if it’s okay for later.”

The kid gives an unholy screech of glee before dashing away. James hears Steve move toward him as he looks at the stars, and he thinks about turning back toward Steve, but he keeps his eyes fixed on the view as much for the view as for another moment to pull himself together and banish the past back to the past.

_I don’t want to remember._

James tenses at the thought. The memory isn’t his. Neither are others. He feels them, floating in his brain like lights in a fog. Whatever Loki did to bring him back brought them into his head. It brought Loki into his head. 

Loki and Natasha.

_You love her._

_She’s a hell of a woman._

_I love you. And I know you love—_

“Bucky?”

James starts again. He never used to be this jumpy, but then again he never used to be able speak Russian or know seventeen ways to kill a man with shoelaces either, he had been one person before, not two or three or none or more, but now he does know and now he is those. Or maybe he isn’t. Trying to shrug, to do something other than shake, he says, “Sorry. Head’s kind of full of—”

—death, ice, murder, war, guns, kill, help, Steve, who—

“—everything.”

Steve nods, his face serious and thoughtful like the kid’s. He takes a step forward and inclines his head toward the bridge and dome. “Come on.”

James follows, grateful for the direction. They leave the bounds of the city. Water soon rushes beneath their feet, and the sound, as the stars, soothes him, blocking out the screams and the sighs in his mind. James breathes in the crisp air, over and over, each breath a mantra, a plea.

_Who are you?_

_Who are you?_

James Barnes.

James Barnes.

Steve clears his throat, breaking the plea. “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to, you know, talk. Things have been, they’ve been… bad.”

James tilts his head to look at Steve. His face is pinched, the crease again between his brow, but not for him now, not completely. “How many?” he asks quietly.

“452 at last count. Most from the crash.” 

He drifts off then, lost in the number of dead. James stares down at the bridge, at the glass swirling, breathing and bright and bold. “I’m sorry…” He stops, swallows, tries again. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t there. Helping. I tried, but…”

“People looked at you as the enemy?”

“Yeah.”

“They’ll accept you. Eventually. They did for Natasha. And for Loki, too, and he’s—” Steve breaks off, his eyes darting to James. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… I mean, I know— She told me, Natasha did, only a little, you know, about you and her, and I—”

As Steve rambles, James feels himself smile. The movement is stiff, his face unaccustomed to such a gesture, but it’s genuine. “It’s nice to know you’re still lousy when it comes to dames, even if it’s just talking about them. Although you think by now you’d be ace.”

Steve slows to a stop, a slight frown on his face. “What do you mean?”

James stops too, a sliver of doubt worming its way into his gut. “You know, seventy years, that’s a long time. I figured by now…” He trails off as the frown on Steve’s face deepens.

“Did no one tell you?” 

James gives him a look. “No one’s exactly lining up to chat with me, Steve.”

Steve quirks a brow at the sass, but lets it go. “I was in ice. Frozen in the Arctic. They only found me…” He pauses and calculates quickly. “…about six months ago, I guess.”

In ice. 

Winter, cold, death, snow, freeze, hollow—

“How?”

“Schmidt.” Steve eases forward and they fall into step once more as James listens to the tale of Steve’s last mission against HYDRA, of the plane crash and the strange blue stone known as the Tesseract, the link between then and now, the cause for Loki’s invasion and the fight in New York. He listens to Loki’s return and the conflict against Doom and Natasha going to Russia to find answers, only to find him. 

By the time Steve’s finished, they stand before the golden sphere. James shakes his head, his mind overrun with all that Steve said, with his own memories and those that aren’t his, the ice and the gods, the guns and the war, the magic and machines and death and the strange, improbable returns from the dead. He closes his eyes. Nothing fits, who he is, where he is, how he is—

James feels hands on his shoulders. He flinches, but he stops himself from jerking back or striking out.

“Bucky—”

_Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th._

“That’s not… I can’t…” He turns away, his jaw clenched.

_You’re my family._

_I’m a soldier._

_You’re my friend._

_—a mindless beast—_

_They say kill, and you do?_

_Yes._

_Yes._

_Yes._

_Yes._

James gasps and presses his hands to his eyes. He sees them, the people, the victims, the liars and the thieves, the men in power and the women too, Natasha and Natasha and Natasha and the Madam. His metal hand cuts into his face, but he presses on, only for the hand to jerk away, Steve holding the wrist in a desperate grip.

“Talk—”

“How? How?” James wrenches his arm from Steve.

“I don’t know. I just— I know you think you’re alone. You did then, too, after Zola. You never…” Steve pauses. James looks at him, but briefly, the emotion in his eyes too much, the guilt too bare and raw. “You never talked about what happened,” he says now, pressing on. “And I should have—”

“You should have done shit, Steve. If I wanted to talk to you, I would have.”

The dismissal snaps the guilt inside Steve, sparking a flare of anger in its stead. “Why didn’t you? Why don’t you now?”

“Right. Why don’t we just sit here in this cozy golden bubble and I can tell you all about the throats I’ve slit and the people I’ve shot—”

“I’ve killed people, too.”

James gives him a look and turns away.

“Okay, so it’s not the same,” Steve says, stalking past James until he stands before him again. “But it is for Natasha. And it is for Clint. You want to talk to someone who understands? There you go. And he didn’t kill random people. He killed his own, and if he can come back from that, you can too.”

_And then what, once you’ve killed me?_

_Will the guilt lift from your heart? Will your dreams stop?_

James drags his hand over his face. Clint before the cage swirls from the fog only to dissolve into Sif. 

_Kick me again. You’ll see who I am._

_In Midgardian tongues, it means affinity._

“And if I can’t?” he asks, trying not to shake.

_Then you will run._

He looks at Steve, fear thick and hot in his throat. 

“You will,” Steve says simply, though the answer is far from simple. “I believe in you.”

*

Loki paces the length of his room, the hand of death upon him. He steps around books strewn across the floor, around clothes and weapons, around scrolls and parchment and ancient, wizened artifacts. He understands the plan. The pieces have come together now. They fit. A simple man from Midgard would need aid in learning such magic as Doom performed, wound need help in concocting his schemes, in daring to decimate the Realm Eternal. And there would be few who would provide such aid, few who would dare challenge the might of Asgard or of its King. 

Their reasoning indeed would have to be great.

_Your ambition is little and full of childish need._

_We're beyond the Earth to greater worlds the Tesseract will unveil._

Yes, Loki sees the plan. Beyond Doom, Thanos lies, wielding Doom as he had once wielded Loki, both of them tools in his quest to acquire the Tesseract. The Other had never specified the worlds that were in their sights, but Loki had suspected. At least one of them he had suspected. They had already known of the Tesseract when they raised him from his perdition in the Void, allegedly for his knowledge of what had once been the prize of Odin’s treasure vault. What they had not known, though, were the rest of the treasures that lurked inside or the security that guarded them or the secret paths that allowed one to enter the realm unseen by Heimdall. 

Loki had told them this, of course he had told them. He had wanted to tell, desiring to rage and revenge against Odin, but he had also known that he needed to tell, his death by Thanos ensured if he remained silent. And telling had garnered him power, it had gained him the scepter, it had given him release from the Void and room in which to maneuver, and room gave him the possibility of survival when Thanos achieved his goal: the Tesseract and then dominion over all.

A devil’s bargain, yet was Loki not a devil?

_You’re a monster._

He stops in the middle of the room, his eyes on the mirror hanging on the left wall. Could he make another? Loki could acquire the Tesseract. Most of the guard still revered him as a member of the royal family. They would not question his presence in the vault or his removal of a relic, even one so prized as the Tesseract. And those that did, those that knew the truth about him, Thor and Frigga, Heimdall and Sif, they were focused on healing Asgard. Loki could take the cube and he could find Thanos and he could bargain with him, he could bargain for his life, his and Natasha’s.

The Tesseract for them.

Asgard for them.

The universe for them.

_You will leave your mother all alone?_

_You are my brother, but what am I to you?_

_Am I lost to you as well?_

Loki closes his eyes. 

_Do you think someone such as I has friends, Barton?_

_You did. Long ago._

They would fight. All of them would fight. And they would die. Barton and Sif. Thor and Frigga. Even Natasha. She wouldn’t run with Loki. He knows she would not. She would stay and she would fight. And she would die.

Again.

_She fought bravely, thinking, I am sure, of you until the end._

He opens his eyes and stares at the feather at the edge of his bed. He’d invoked the Helm when death had first threatened Natasha, Loki needing more of her, having just discovered her. But he had failed. Doom had found a way around the Helm; he had nearly succeeded in killing Natasha. 

There would be no nearly with Thanos.

_You think you know pain?_

_He will make you long for something as sweet as pain._

How long did they have? How long would Thanos wait while Asgard reeled from its ruin before he entered the realm and slaughtered them all and claimed what he desired? Loki looks again at the mirror. Then he crosses to it, needing to know. 

Reaching out, he touches a finger to the glass; the image wavers and fades and resolves into the mountain beyond the plain. Loki touches it again to move in closer, to search for the crack to Svartalfheim. The Dark Elves would welcome the chance to witness the destruction of Asgard; they would grant Thanos passage through their realm. Yet Loki sees no warp of time or shimmer of space around the passage. So if not there, then where? He stares at the mirror, contemplating the few options, and then he knows. 

_Your death came at the hand of Laufey._

_And your death came by the son of Odin._

Of course. Of course Thanos would go there. Why wouldn’t he, knowing what he knows about Loki? Breathing in, he prepares to change the view, to confirm the truth, to the see the path that lurks on the other side of the world. 

The one that leads to Jotunheim.

“Travelling?” she asks.

The air catches in his throat at the sound of her voice. Three days since Loki had heard her last, her voice soft and just for him, the two standing in the dark of her quarters. Natasha had pulled him again from the brink, from letting his jealousy and doubt devour him and her too, but how had he repaid her for her efforts?

_Remuneration for stolen funds._

_I got shot. It happens._

_Do you know she thought she would die in her little mission to save you?_

Loki clenches his jaw at the memories, at the endless, ceaseless cycle of him. He had let Doom capture Natasha. He’d called her nothing, a liar and a whore. He’d abandoned her when the Red Room started their pursuit and then he had sent her on an impossible mission against Odin and the Destroyer. And in his arrogance, his belief in his superiority and that of the Helm, he’d let Doom take Natasha again and, this time, he let Doom kill her.

_Do you see what I am?_

_I am death. All I know is the kill._

_You can be more. I saw it._

He tenses against the remembrance, Natasha kneeling beside him in Paris.

_I feel, and I wouldn’t, not like this, if it weren’t for you._

_You can inspire, Loki, and you can guide._

_You need only try._

Loki hears movement, the scrape of a shoe on stone and the snap of the door as it shuts. But he does not turn as Natasha comes closer. Instead he drops his hand from the mirror and waits and, after a moment, she says, “I saw you, didn’t I? In Switzerland. When I died. Or was it just a dream?”

_Sometimes I think this is still a dream. How could this be real?_

_Because it is._

_How can this hurt if I’m not real?_

Loki opens his eyes. He sees Natasha at the edge of his vision. Her question hangs in the air between them, waiting for his response. His eyes on the mountain and the plain, Loki draws in a breath and says, “It wasn’t a dream.” 

Then he turns toward her.

At the sight of Natasha a few feet away, the visions of her shot from Winter, of her overrun from the Casket, of her cold and lifeless upon the Carrier floor vanish. She wears the cream linen from the healing rooms, but everything else is life and color, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright and her stance straight and strong. Relief floods him, but then he sees the scar on her throat and he tenses once more.

_She fought bravely, thinking, I am sure, of you until the end._

Natasha notices his look and raises a hand to the scar. “It’s the only one left,” she says, her voice soft. “The only scar. The rest of them are gone. Why do you think she left this one?” 

Loki opens his mouth only to close it, unable, for the moment, to speak. Then he swallows, trying not to tremble, and tries again. “Some wounds can’t be healed. Not completely. Not even with magic.”

Her fingertips trail the length of the wound. “No. I suppose they can’t.” She pauses then and eyes him; Loki tries not to squirm under her gaze, to feel blame as she lowers her hand or reproach as she moves toward him. Natasha stops before him, and the world stops as he waits for her to give voice to the voices screaming inside him since she fell, screaming out his failure, but instead she shifts and her hand touches his and she says, “But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.” 

_The mistakes don’t mean you shouldn’t try._

_I’ve got red in my ledger. I’d like to wipe it out._

Loki closes his eyes. He grasps her hand and the clasp of hers in return stills the shaking within him. He is alive. She is alive. They are both—

_What will happen now? Now that Thanos knows you’ve failed?_

_Something far worse than hell._

Loki opens his eyes and finds Natasha looking at the mirror, and he knows then that Barton had been right, that somehow she knows, and that when she asked him about travelling, she had really been asking, as before, if he was going to run.

_There’s everything here. You’re just too afraid to take it._

_I’m not afraid._

Loki licks his lips.

_Then prove it._

He raises a hand and touches the mirror again, his fingertips trembling as they find the glass. The image wavers and fades, replaced by the view of the other side of the world, of the barren, rocky land upon when he waited with Thor so long ago, the two of the silent and solemn from their first brush with death. He watches as Natasha stiffens; her gaze fixes on the image in the glass. Loki doesn’t look, he doesn’t want to look, the face of the man before them burned into his brain along with the scars on his body and his memories of his time in the Void.

Loki lowers his hand from the mirror. “He will kill us all. Gladly and swiftly.”

“Maybe,” Natasha says, still looking at Thanos. “But maybe not.” Her eyes shift to Loki then, and in them he sees the strength that he has always seen, strength enough to challenge a god time and time again, on the Carrier and in Switzerland, in Russia and Latveria, the strength that sent her to Asgard to barter with Odin, that fueled her mission to reclaim Barton from the mist of the Tesseract, that had caused her to look at Loki across a kitchen island in India and lower her gun.

“Do you ever wonder,” she asks now, “what would have happened if I hadn’t lied to you about Anna?” 

The question catches him off guard, and he narrows his eyes.

“I hadn’t,” she says, giving his hand a squeeze before moving away. “At least not until I was lying in that bed.” He watches as she picks her way past the items, staring down at them, her face pensive. “I did what I thought I had to. What I’d been programmed to do. Me, alone against the mark.” Natasha stops by a pile of books and looks back at Loki. “It’s not that I didn’t trust you. I just… reverted. Anna had tortured me. She’d taken everything from me. Whoever I had been before, she’d twisted and broken, and I was…” She pauses and breathes in. Her eyes find the feather at the edge of the bed. “I was afraid,” she continues, moving toward the bed. “I was afraid that she’d do it again. She almost did, but only because I let her. Because I played the game on her terms.” Reaching the bed, Natasha leans down for the feather. “I did the same with Doom,” she says, glancing at him. “I knew he was coming, him or Winter, and I sent Darcy away. I went alone. It was my fight. My fear. Not of dying,” she explains, turning her gaze to the feather. “But of loss. And I almost did. Again.”

_She fought bravely—_

_She fought bravely—_

“Don’t make the same mistake I did.”

Loki starts, pulled from his memory of her lying prone on the Carrier floor. The plea in her eyes is stark and direct. “What?”

“Don’t make the same mistake I did,” she says again. “You’re afraid. I can see it. All this—” She waves one hand, taking in all of his research, his desperate search for some clue, for some aid against Thanos. “You won’t even look at him. But don’t… don’t—”

“Run.”

Natasha nods. 

And Loki understands. He ran from himself, from the truth of his birth, running from Asgard. He’d run from Thanos to the Earth. Then he ran from Natasha, again and again, denying and evading, choosing death before acceptance as he allowed the energies of the Casket and the Destroyer to rip him apart. Yet all of his running had led back here, to her and to Asgard, to the sins of his past. Death looms now and Loki could run again, he could touch the mirror and slip through the worlds, cast an illusion over himself and hide, but if he did, he wouldn’t have her, Natasha who does not run, not even from death, who always, at every turn, dares him to be more as she herself dares to be more. 

_We could go to Paris and just sit, just sit in a café and drink wine and we don’t have to think about Doom or S.H.I.E.L.D. or spying._

_We could just… we could just be._

_We could just be Loki and Natasha._

An illusion, he thought, nothing more than a deadly dream dangled before him by fate only to be snatched away, as Asgard before, for his sins, for himself, the monster that parents tell their children about at night. But he wants it. He lost it, he threw it away and Doom crushed it in his hands. But he wants it. He wants her.

_You’re going to lose._

_Am I?_

_You lack conviction._

He wants her.

_See beyond yourself, Odinson. See what they see._

_And if I can’t?_

_Then you will run and they will find you and all will begin again, but all may not end as you wish it to end._

Loki wants her. He wants Natasha.

_Sometimes I think this is still a dream. You came to me in July, and you changed my life. So… quickly. So completely. How could this be real?_

_Because it is._

Because it is. Because he’ll make it so.

Whatever it takes.

“Not running,” he says, moving toward her now. “Searching.”

Her shoulders settle at his response, relief relaxing her stance. She watches as he comes closer, stepping around books and scrolls, his eyes on her. Natasha lowers her hand and places the feather back upon the bed. Her fingers trace the seam of the blanket; her foot brushes again against the platform upon which the mattress lies. Two paces away, she looks up at Loki, and he tries to fix this image in his mind, the curve of her lips as she smiles, her eyes as they find his, bright with life and heated now as they peer at him. He tries to banish the image of her dead upon the Carrier floor, but the sight of the scar pulling at her throat blurs the thought in his mind and spurs him forward. Natasha reaches out as he reaches her and pulls him in, she pushes past the folds of his armor and tries to find skin, digging in a desperate grip. They stumble over clothes as they cross the room. Loki shoves out with his mind, scattering the items to the far corners; a few smash against the walls. His hands slip under the hem of her shirt, and he gasps at the warmth of her body, his gasp swallowed by Natasha as she threads her fingers into his hair and pulls him down for a kiss. 

The kiss mimics their grip on each other, desperate and demanding. He palms her breasts and squeezes, and Natasha wrenches at the strap crossing his chest, at the folds of fabric and metal encasing him. Releasing her, he shucks off his coat and chestplate. Loki watches as she eases back, her eyes dark, the fire in the hearth blazing behind her and illuminating the curves of her body beneath the linen. He moves in again, pressing her against the stone wall and claiming her lips in another kiss. Natasha shoves at the hem of his tunic, yanking it up his chest and away from his breeches. Her fingers jerk on the laces as his tug on her pants, as he eases them down until they fall in a heap by her feet. She steps out of them and kicks them away and then the laces give and she frees his cock and Loki breaks the kiss at the feel of her hand around him, her palm soft and her grip hard in a slow pull that sends a shudder through his body. He braces one hand above her head and moves the other between her legs, and she is warm and wet as he slides a finger inside and watches as she trembles and gasps. The way her hand tightens in response breaks him, the sight of the scar on her throat, slick and taut beneath the pounding of her pulse, breaks him. He had meant to go slow, in Omsk they went slow, but in Omsk they had time and here death nips at them, it cuts them down, and he can’t, he can’t, Loki can’t go slow, but neither can Natasha. He moves his hands to grip her hips and Natasha wraps an arm around his neck, lifting herself as he lifts her. He braces an arm on the wall by her hips and she wraps her legs around him, one around his waist, the other over his arm, and then she guides him closer, she pulls him flush before easing him in.

The heat of the fire and the heat of her envelop Loki. Natasha reaffirms her hold on him, one hand in his hair and one on his waist. Her breath is ragged in his ear, and at his first thrust, it stops and his does too. Her nails dig into his skin and her arm tenses around his neck. Natasha tilts her hips forward and Loki thrusts again, the movement smoother now and deeper, drawing a moan from them both. His grip tightens on her hip as he moves again, as he strives for a steady pace, but he can’t, he can’t, Natasha lifting her hand from his waist and drawing her fingertips against the cuts that still linger, on the bruise darkening the bridge of his nose and the slight swelling beneath his eye. He leans into her touch. Heat suffuses him and his muscles clench and Loki breathes her in. The light catches her scar and he closes his eyes against it, feeling her, her hand on his face, the brush of her breasts against him as she breathes. 

_I love you._

Natasha kisses him. Loki feels her shudder, he feels her legs shake and her muscles quiver. He pushes in, needing her, needing to cast away the pall of death that surrounds them. They move together, the pace quick and rough, desperate, the walls hurling back upon them their harsh breath, the scrape of his boots across the ground as he seeks for balance. They are alive now, but will they? They are alive now, but will they? Will they survive? The thought runs through his mind, racing around the heat that shoots through him. Natasha tenses and breaks the kiss, her hand clenching in his hair as her orgasm takes hold, and Loki presses his face against hers, his lips on her cheek. 

_I love you._

_And I know you love me._

He whispers the incantation as his body grows taut, as heat floods from his gut, along his nerves and throughout his veins, from his lips to the Helm, the magic within the rune shifting and stretching and drawing him in.

_Remuneration for stolen funds._

_I got shot. It happens._

_You think you know pain?_

_It’s not easy, atoning._

_You think you know pain?_

_I’ve got red in my ledger._

_Isn’t it funny?_

_I’d like to wipe it out._

_Can you? Can you wipe out that much red?_

_Isn’t it funny the way the worlds turn and the fates fall?_

*


End file.
